


Lord Vile's Armour

by purplejabberwocky



Series: Skulduggery Pleasant: Dead Men Walking [3]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, The Dead Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 79,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplejabberwocky/pseuds/purplejabberwocky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They know, you know,” Donegan said in a low voice. “The Dead Men. All of them. They’ve got to. And they’re not telling anyone.”</p><p>Lord Vile. One of the most feared personages in the war. But he's back--or so the world thinks. Now the Dead Men know better. All they have to do is pick up the pieces of that betrayal. Only Skulduggery has any idea how. The problem is that it means making the same mistake over again.</p><p>And this time there'll be no coming back.</p><p> </p><p>NOTE: Edited 14 Dec 2015 for nitpicks and streamlining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is book 2.5. It takes a similar place in 'Walking as 'Maleficent Seven' takes in canon, as a novel bridging two official books in the series.

Three minutes.

The shadows boiled across the room and Saracen leapt for the cover of the nearest pillar. He felt them hit and the pillar shake, but already the shadows were sweeping around the stone, already they were reaching for him.

He wasn’t there anymore. He’d taken off across the room, running faster than he’d needed in the last century. It was almost enough to make him wish he’d done more exercise. He had more important things on his mind than to worry about a bit of pudge—or, using Anton’s word, ‘fat’.

Thinking of Anton made grief hit him so sharply that Saracen staggered and was almost convinced that shadows had pierced him through the heart. They hadn’t, but when he glanced behind him the whole Repository was a seething mass of blackness.

Nothing had turned out like they’d hoped, let alone like how they’d _wanted_. Saracen would have been tempted to let the shadows have him, if he didn’t have a plan. A desperate plan, but the only one he had left. Their only hope.

Two minutes.

His chest was tight and aching fiercely, but it took a moment for Saracen to realise that the reason he couldn’t see properly was because of the tears.

_‘Don’t save me.’_

_“Dad—”_

_‘Don’t. You won’t have the magic to spare if you save me. Don’t save me, Saracen.’_

He hit the wall, rebounded off it, ducked a shadow and almost fell. He was being played with, now. The whole room was full of magic. Saracen caught his balance, took cover behind a pillar that caught the brunt of another lazy necromantic attack, and then broke for the hollow of the Eye.

One minute. He only needed one more minute.

He blew through the opening and slammed into the controls, and pressed every button he could find. It was still broken. Nobody had seen the need to fix it, after Serpine. That was okay. Saracen needed it to be broken. He needed to turn it on in every possible way, for it to draw as much power as it could possibly take, for the crystal to charge with that ear-splitting hum and bathe the Repository with searing light.

Saracen fancied he heard the shadows scream as he sank to the floor and huddled in the corner, and turned his eyes away from the radiance.

Thirty seconds.

Saracen put his head down on his knees and tried to catch his breath, and couldn’t tell whether his gasps were because he’d been running or because he was sobbing. Most of the time he didn’t mind living up to the Dead Man reputation, pretending he’d always been something he wasn’t. Right now, there was no one to see if he didn’t.

_“What are you doing?!”_

_“It’s the only way. I can control it.”_

_“You’re an idiot! You think you can fix your mistake by making the same mistake over again? Get away from there!”_

_“Tell them I’m sorry.”_

The Eye reached a fevered pitch and then the light died, and everything was silent. Everything except the pound of Saracen’s heart. When he looked up and blinked through the spots in front of his eyes, the shadows were already creeping around the opening. He heard a quiet swish, like the rustle of fabric. Then Vile filled the entrance, tall and silent, his slitted helmet tilted just so. Shadows rose over his shoulders like little snapping dragons, and their points grew jagged.

Zero seconds.

The shadows lunged.

Saracen closed his eyes.


	2. 1

_The marketplace was loud, so loud that the boy wanted to cover his ears. He folded his hands behind his back instead, because it wasn’t good to show that kind of weakness in public. Especially with so many of the King’s Guard present. The boy had never seen the King’s Guard before. His father always sent him away when they came to the estate. But when he listened at the stairs, the voices he heard were always tense or even angry._

_But there were a lot of the King’s Guard here. Almost everywhere the boy turned, he could see their coats and helmets. They got a lot of dirty looks, but only when their backs were turned._

_“What would you like to see first?” asked his father. The boy looked up at him. It was his first time at the markets. There was almost too much to see._

_“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It’s all so colourful. Where do you usually go, Da?”_

_His father looked stern, but he had a kind of smile that made his eyes crinkle. He looked very stern almost all the time at home, these days. Except when he came back from the market. “Nowhere. Everywhere. Choose a direction, and we shall follow it.”_

_The boy looked around. There were an awful lot of the Guard near the armourer’s and the smithy, and the boy was sure the tournament was supposed to be that way as well, so he nodded in the opposite direction. It was rude to point. “Over there.”_

_“Excellent choice,” said his father, and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder to guide him through the crowd. Not that the boy was worried. People always parted to let his da through._

_“Why?” he asked, pleased to have been complimented. “What’s over there?”_

_“I haven’t the faintest idea,” his father said. “That’s what makes it a good choice. It will be a new experience for the both of us.”_

_“But haven’t you already seen everything here before, Da?”_

_“Not all of it,” he answered with an eye-crinkling smile. “Some things change every week. Everything is always in a different place.”_

_The boy considered this for a moment. “The farm animals can’t be in different places,” he pointed out. “The meadow is the only place with enough room for them. The contests too. And the smithy never moves, even when it isn’t market day.”_

_His father laughed and ruffled his hair. The boy shook off his scowl and made his face blank instead. It didn’t help to show if you were annoyed, either. “Yes, some things are the same. But look.” His father nodded toward a stall selling roasted nuts. “Last week, that man was selling by the meadow. Today, he is here. Why is that, do you think?”_

_The boy watched the man and his daughter as they bustled back and forth, exchanging coin for roasted nuts. They were just close enough that the rich scent rose up over the crowd to tease his nose. “The tournament is always in the meadow,” he said. “And people always want something to eat when they’re watching. Maybe he was too late to get a place there.”_

_“And yet he doesn’t seem to be having trouble selling his wares,” his father said._

_That was true. The boy watched the customers. Most of them were going the same way they were: down the lane, toward the square. If he stretched onto his toes and peered through the gaps between people, he could see colourful clothes and ribbons and balls, and when he strained his ears, he could hear music._

_“Because there are gypsies in the square,” he said, dropping back to his feet and allowing himself the luxury of letting his smile show._

_“So there are,” said Da, and steered him toward the stall. The owner smiled at them both, and a moment later they were one coin shorter and two bags of roasted nuts richer, and ambling toward the gypsies._

_The boy had never seen gypsies before. They were dark of skin, with strange eyes and laughing faces, and the boy was certain they must not have a bone inside them, to be able to do backflips and cartwheels with so much ease. He meant to be aloof, as befitting for a nobleman’s son, but found himself watching in fascination. Every so often caught himself with his mouth open and eyes wide._

_Every time he glanced up at his father, hoping he hadn’t seen. But his father was watching the gypsies, with a twinkle in his eyes and a hum in his chest, leaning on his cane._

_There was a girl in the courtyard, nearly his age, who was performing cartwheels all along the edge of the fountain when the music faltered. Parts of the crowd shuffled, and the boy stepped back into his father’s protective arm. At first he didn’t see why the music had stopped, but then he heard the clink of mail and saw flashes of colour between the people. Some of the crowd slipped quietly away. They didn’t want any trouble. But others kept watching, even laughed, as if there was still more entertainment happening._

_“Who is it, Da?” the boy whispered, looking up. There was no twinkle in his father’s eyes now._

_“It’s the King’s Guard,” he said. “Hush now.”_

_“Hoy, what are you about there?” said a man with a deep voice. The boy couldn’t see him, but he disliked that voice instantly. It was amused, but as if its owner was laughing at people instead of with them. One of the boy’s tutors had had a voice like that. Da had sent him off a week later._

_“Bit of play, sirrah,” someone else answered, with such a thick accent that the boy almost didn’t understand it at all. He recognised the tone, though. It was the same tone as the groom who had nearly caused one of their horses to go lame. Da had used a specific word for that: ‘insolent’. Da had sent him off by evening. “Earning some coin. No harm done, see? It’s market-day.”_

_“The market is for the local farmers and merchants,” said the man with the deep voice. “Not for the likes of you. Clear off.”_

_“We’ve got a right to earn a living, just the same as those farmers.”_

_“Yes, and I’m sure each of these poor revellers have lost twice as much coin as they expected to spend, thanks to your quick hands. I said clear off.”_

_“We ain’t—”_

_There was a ring of metal and then a frightened cry. From the girl who had been turning cartwheels, the boy was sure. “You’ll leave or we’ll make you.”_

_“Stay behind me,” said the boy’s father, but quietly. Then he moved forward through the crowd, and the boy had to clutch the back of his clothes to avoid losing him. When they came out into the area everyone else had cleared, the boy saw a man in the King’s colours gripping the girl’s arm and shaking her. One of the other guards had a sword drawn. The gypsy in the front, the one with salt-and-pepper hair, was standing rebelliously, but the boy could tell from the way the gypsy glanced down at the girl that he was scared too._

_“Excuse me, Captain,” said the boy’s father in his calmest, most controlled tone. The captain’s head snapped around, his hand resting on his sword. “Speaking as a local, the gypsies have been welcome to join the market since far before I was a lad. I, for one, quite enjoy watching them.”_

_He was very reasonable, he had lived there all his life, and he owned the land, unlike the King’s Guard. The boy thought there wasn’t much the captain could say to oppose that. He would have to let the gypsies keep performing now._

_But the captain frowned. “I know you. Molony, isn’t it? Albert Molony.”_

_“Ailbe_ _ó_ _Maolomhnaigh,” corrected the boy’s father._

_The captain threw the little girl away from him and the gypsy man kneeled down to pull her closer. The captain turned toward them. All the King’s Guard turned toward them. “You like being a troublemaker, don’t you, Molony?”_

_The King’s Guards started moving around behind them. The boy stepped closer to Da and felt for his hand, and his father squeezed it back. “I’m not fond of making trouble,” said the boy’s father. “But I’ll not be silent at an injustice, either. The gypsies are welcome here. Why do you send them away?”_

_“It’s the duty of the King’s Guard to weed out the riffraff and the malcontents,” said the captain. “Gypsies are thieves and swindlers. And I was warned about you, Molony.”_

_He sounded pleasant and dangerous at the same time, but the boy’s father was calm. “Were you?”_

_“Yes,” said the captain, stepping closer. “I was told that you’re belligerent and rebellious of the King’s authority, and that you still worship in the Catholic manner in spite of all the laws against it. Is this your son?” Abruptly he nodded down at the boy. Only then did the boy realise he wasn’t quite as hidden as he should have been. His father’s hand tightened, but the captain said, “Come out from behind your father, boy.”_

_It was too late to hide, so the boy straightened his shoulders and stepped away. He didn’t want to drop his father’s hand, but holding it would be a weakness, and if the captain was the same sort of man as the tutor, he would jump on weakness. The boy lifted his chin and breathed evenly, and held his hands behind his back so no one could see them shake. “Yes?”_

_“What’s your name, boy?”_

_“Kian_ _ó_ _Maolomhnaigh,” said the boy, “and I think you are very unfair to make the gypsies have to leave. They’re not the only people from another county who are attending the market today.”_

_“Look,” said the captain to his men. “Spitting image, arrogance and all. How old are you, boy?”_

_“My name is Kian.”_

_“How old are you, Kian?”_

_“Seven.”_

_“And do you understand what’s happening here, Kian?”_

_The boy looked at the captain and his laughing eyes. The captain was laughing at_ him _. He thought he was a small, stupid child. The boy looked at the gypsies, who stood silent and stony-faced. Then he looked at the King’s Guard, who were amused in the same way as their captain, relaxed because they felt they had the advantage. Finally he looked back at the captain._

 _“You don’t like the gypsies,” he said, “because they look and act differently to you, and you have the authority of the King, and you think you can use his authority against the people you don’t like. And you don’t like my da because he believes some different things to you and he isn’t afraid to tell you that you’re wrong. You don’t like being wrong. You think that being powerful means you shouldn’t be wrong, even when you are. So when people tell you that you are, you make threats so they’ll be afraid of you and let you do what you want. But my da isn’t afraid of you. And you_ are _wrong.”_

_The captain’s smile wasn’t very amused anymore. The King’s Guard weren’t smiling anymore either. The boy would have been afraid, except that his father’s hand landed gently on his shoulder and squeezed in that way he did when he was proud. Mostly. It was a little bit tighter than usual._

_“You’re raising your brat to be a troublemaker already, I see,” said the captain._

_“I’m raising my son to tell the truth and be unafraid of the judgement of others,” said the boy’s father. “There is no need to send the gypsies away, Captain. See the crowd they draw? They bring dance and song to the market. What harm will come if they remain?”_

_“They will believe they have the right to remain,” said the captain, “and they will swindle you all blind. But since you’re so insistent on being robbed, who am I to argue?” He bowed, but mockingly, and his smile was vicious and cold. “Good day. Keep a good eye on your son. You wouldn’t want him to start getting into trouble of his own.”_

_Da’s hand tightened on the boy’s shoulder, but the boy looked the captain in the eye until he turned around and indicated for his men to move out of the square. The gypsy leader spat on the ground._

_“Reckon we’ll be off,” he said. His hands were resting on the girl’s shoulders._

_“There’s no need,” said Da. “Please. Stay. You have the right to the courtyard as much as we.”_

_The look the gypsy gave them then was scornful and confused at once. But there was something else there too. It was tired, like the boy’s father sometimes looked. “You know s’well as I do that he’ll be putting a watch on the meadows,” he said, “and pick us up for trespassing. Ain’t nowhere to stay for us here, and we’ll need the light to get far enough from town.”_

_“You can stay on my land,” said the boy’s father, very firmly. “He can’t argue with that, even if he can find which meadow you’re in.”_

_For a long moment the gypsy eyed him cautiously, but then he shrugged. “Your own hide, sirrah.”_

_“I’m not the type to bend to bullies,” said the boy’s father. “Just follow the lane down past the stream, over the dyke. I’m sure you can find a suitable place for yourselves in one of the pastures there.” He squeezed the boy’s shoulder. It was a strange squeeze. Trembling, almost. “You and I had better make ourselves scarce, son.” Before the boy could argue his father turned him away, and while his pace wasn’t brisk it was purposeful as they left through the whispering crowd._

_“Can’t we stay longer?” the boy asked wistfully, glancing back to where the gypsies were starting their song again._

_“No,” said his father, looking straight ahead. “You shouldn’t have said those things, Kian.”_

_The boy looked up, surprised. “Why? You always say we should tell the truth.”_

_“That’s true,” said his father, “but sometimes you must tell the truth in a way that won’t make others angry, for your own safety. The King’s Guard do not like me, Kian, and now they do not like you.”_

_“Would they hurt me?”_

_His father looked down, and his brow was pinched with worry. “They might. You must be careful.”_

_“I will, Da. But then why did you offer to let the gypsies stay in our meadow? They_ are _thieves, and if the captain finds out, won’t he dislike you more?”_

_“Because,” said his father, “one’s soul is nourished when one is kind, and destroyed when one is cruel. The gypsies steal because they must, and if they leave the market early, their lack of coin will drive them to steal more so they may endure. It would not be kind to them or the people they will rob to send them away now.”_

_“Oh.” For a moment the boy said nothing else. They walked down the lane and out of the village, leaving the distant strains of music and merchants hawking their wares behind them._

_His father looked down again, and his hand glided gently over the boy’s hair. “What is your wondering, my son?”_

_“That sounded like a quote,” said the boy. “I’m trying to remember where it’s from.”_

_His father chuckled softly.  “It’s from the Bible. It was spoken by a very wise man—a king.”_

_“Oh. What was his name?”_

_“Solomon,” said his father. “His name was Solomon.”_


	3. 2

Auron Tenebrae successfully resisted the urge to shake his head up until he was alone in his office. In fact, he resisted that urge even when he was alone, schooling his entwined fingers to stillness and watching the door for several irritable minutes until he was sure said irritation was under his control.

What a mess. The annoying part was that it wasn’t even Tenebrae’s fault. Not that it was a pleasure to clean up one’s own mess, but there was something particularly galling at having to clean up someone else’s, and especially when Tenebrae didn’t know who to blame.

It was nearly a month since Baron Vengeous had been defeated, but there were some discrepancies in the Sanctuary’s public story. For one thing, it made no mention that the Temple had sent anyone to help. For another, no Sanctuary representatives said anything about Lord Vile’s armour.

But there were rumours going around the Temple. Suggestions that the armour _had_ been seen, in nooks and shadows. Watching. Waiting.

Some even said that Lord Vile had returned, and was simply waiting for the opportune moment.

Which was ridiculous, of course, but Tenebrae couldn’t debunk that rumour without revealing how he knew it was untrue, and at this point that would only weaken his position. The Temple in England had already asked what he planned to do. Him. As if it was his responsibility. Even though it was, it was galling that the other Temples should believe so without actually knowing the truth—just because Vile had been a necromancer.

Tenebrae found himself wishing Cleric Wreath were still alive. He’d never quite liked Wreath, nor exactly trusted him, but then it would have been a lie for any necromancer to claim they fully trusted another. Wreath was eccentric. He never made any pretence of that. His time spent outside the Temple, the particular rules he chose to flaunt disobeying—any _decent_ cleric of the order would at least break the rules with subtlety. Wreath had never bothered.

But Wreath was canny and intelligent. He had more initiative than Quiver, and better advice than Craven, even if it was advice Tenebrae disliked using too often. Just in case. But Tenebrae knew for a fact that Wreath had no ambitions about being High Priest, unlike some others within the Temple.

Not to mention the fact that if he’d been alive, Tenebrae would have more information as to just what had happened at Clearwater. As it was, all he knew was that Wreath hadn’t come back, and that there was no trace of him, and that the Baron had apparently escaped in the armour. Which, of course, the Sanctuary was denying.

And that led Tenebrae back to the other Temples demanding he do something about this rogue pseudo-necromancer on Irish soil—even though no one actually _knew_ if he was still, in fact, on Irish soil. With a sigh Tenebrae rose and turned to move around his desk, and stopped just short of running into the motionless armour standing by him.

He jumped, managing to do so to the side to avoid stumbling over his chair. His heart jackhammered in his chest, and then he fully registered what he was seeing. A set of armour. A set of armour made of darkness and blending in with the shadows, so quiet that Tenebrae didn’t even know when it had arrived. It took him a moment longer than he wanted to master himself.

“How long have you been there?” he asked, keeping his voice steady and raising an eyebrow. The armour tilted its head. The action was so reminiscent of Skulduggery Pleasant that it sparked irritation, and Tenebrae seized on that to help ease the adrenaline.

“Baron Vengeous, I presume,” he said when the man didn’t answer. It had to be Baron Vengeous. No one else would be foolish or arrogant enough to wear the armour save its owner, and Tenebrae already knew Skulduggery Pleasant hadn’t. Wreath hadn’t even wanted to step foot on the same block of land, and none of the Dead Men were stupid enough to try. That left the Baron.

The fact that he’d managed to get inside the Temple without Tenebrae’s knowing was cause for concern, but the Baron was a reasonable enough man. He could be parleyed with. All it meant was that his power over the armour was greater than Tenebrae had thought.

“I heard your little plot failed, thanks to the Dead Men,” he continued mildly, watching the slit in the visor. “But what do you want from me?”

The shadows which created the visor scrolled back to reveal Solomon Wreath’s face, pale and stricken, his eyes wide with panic.

“Help me,” he mouthed, and then shadows grew up over his cheeks like vines and pierced his temples. He went rigid and his eyes went black, and his mouth fell open. The voice that issued from Wreath’s slack lips was raspy, like it had been dragged all the way up from an abyss.

“We want you to die.”

Cold terror seized Tenebrae’s limbs, so that even though he _wanted_ to move, he couldn’t, even though he told himself he _should_. The shadows swelled up along the walls and engulfed his desk, and High Priest Auron Tenebrae of the Irish Necromancers’ Temple died with a spear of shadows through the chest.


	4. 3

It was the middle of the night. Dexter was pounding on the punching-bag. He didn’t usually like punching-bags, because they were only _bags_ , and there was really nothing challenging about beating one up. But every now and then, when he needed to work out the tension and there wasn’t someone around to spar with, he’d resort to killing a poor defenceless punching-bag.

This would be the third one in the last month, and he had no intention of letting up until it was so much ragged leather and stuffing hanging from its noose.

He was at the Sanctuary. The Midnight Hotel had a gym, and Dexter hadn’t exactly been _avoiding_ it, but he also didn’t think it was very political to be pounding Anton’s punching-bags into a punching-bag afterlife given the circumstances. Dexter, after all, had been complicit in the deception. That, and if someone had broken his concentration he probably would have punched them in the face, and that was never a good thing to happen even by accident at the Midnight Hotel.

Someone cleared their throat. Dexter dealt one last blow and watched the punching-bag swing away from him, its hook creaking, and then stepped back, breathing hard. He bowed. “Grand Mage.”

Morwenna Crow’s expression was nearly impassive, except that he was sure there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. “So you’re the one who’s to blame for the complaints I’ve been getting.”

“Complaints about what?” Dexter asked, stripping the tape off his knuckles and flexing them. Even with the protection, his hands were going to be raw and stiff tomorrow. Or worse. Kenspeckle wasn’t going to be happy with him.

“About the gym equipment needing replacing. The Cleavers claim they have nothing to train on.”

“They can always train on each other,” Dexter said, and turned around to walk to the bench where his gear sat. “Do you have a case for me, Grand Mage?”

He heard her sigh, and felt a twinge of regret for his coolness. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t that she was a necromancer. It was that she was the Grand Mage, she knew something was wrong, and yet she hadn’t asked. Dexter almost wished she would, instead of hovering, waiting for one of them to crack. Not that she was the only one to notice. People around the Sanctuary were beginning to talk. About how Skulduggery Pleasant had barely been seen within the Sanctuary, to the point where Dexter himself was taking over all their cases. About how Elder Hopeless’s friends, far from being frequent visitors, were rarities. For the moment, Dexter had managed to maintain the implication that they were all working far too hard trying to follow up on the Baron’s associates to wander into the Sanctuary for random visits.

At least it was true for Skulduggery.

So Dexter wasn’t _actually_ expecting Morwenna to give him a case. Right up until she said, “Someone murdered High Priest Tenebrae last night.”

Dexter went rigid right where he sat on the bench. “What?”

“High Priest Tenebrae was murdered,” Morwenna repeated, coming closer.

Dexter looked up. “How do you know? I thought they excommunicated you.”

The smile Morwenna gave him was faint and humourless, and she held up a folded note. “I still have some students within the Temple to give me updates, besides Solomon. They say it was Lord Vile.”

No. Dexter’s mouth went dry and he all but snatched the page from her, his hand-wrappings trailing on the floor. He read the note quickly and then looked up. “She sounds terrified.”

“Can you blame her?” Morwenna asked. “She never even fought in the war. All she knew of Lord Vile were stories of a monster.”

“She was after Vile’s time?”

Over the centuries Dexter had gotten used to saying ‘Vile’ without batting an eyelash, without letting on that he knew Vile by another name. Now, it felt so heavy on his tongue that he almost tripped over it.

“She would have been a handful of summers old when Vile broke out of the Temple.” Morwenna sat down beside him, just a touch more heavily than she would have if this had been a council-room or her office. She looked, Dexter saw, tired. Tired and old. The grey in her hair had spread. Morwenna shook her head. “The other Sanctuaries have been asking what happened to the armour after we defeated the Baron. I think withholding the truth is the only thing Thurid and Hopeless had been able to agree on. And now we have been caught in the lie.”

“Hopeless doesn’t lie,” Dexter said, and then amended, “often. What has he been telling people?”

“That the continued containment of Vile’s armour is a major concern.”

So not strictly a lie, while still implying that Vile’s armour was actually _contained_. Dexter snorted. “Sounds like Hopeless.”

“Sounds like Eachan,” Morwenna said with a note of wistfulness, and then shook her head. Dexter knew what she was thinking. She was wishing Meritorious was still here to handle the tough choices.

“How have you been?” Dexter asked, and was startled by his own question and how gentle his tone was. So was Morwenna, judging by the surprise on her face.

“Coping,” she said after a moment’s thought. “Being an Elder was difficult enough. I never quite imagined what Eachan must have endured as Grand Mage.”

“That’s not what I meant. You’re a necromancer, and the most powerful known necromancer’s tool is out there holding your favourite student hostage. And now the Temple is being targeted. How many people are blaming you?”

“Not many,” said Morwenna, “yet. No one knows about Solomon. Some people have aired concerns about my refusal to be completely transparent about the armour’s whereabouts.” She smiled again, this time tightly. “Mine, not _ours_ , even though we all agreed upon it. And it is unlikely that the Temple will allow news of Tenebrae’s death to reach the outside. I’m more worried about what this means for the armour, and whether Tenebrae’s murder will only be the first.”

Dexter didn’t answer. He handed the letter back and unwound the tape from his knuckles. “So why are you coming to me? What’s wrong with Hopeless?”

“I’m not a fool, Dex. Something happened between the Dead Men the night you went to stop the Baron. I don’t know what it is and I know better than to ask, but _whatever_ it is, Hopeless isn’t in the condition to talk about it. He’s barely holding on as it is, for the sake of the Sanctuary. If I guessed he hasn’t seen any of you in days, I’d be right, wouldn’t I?”

Dexter ripped off the last of the tape and wadded it up into a ball, and stuffed it angrily into his bag. The worst thing was that she was right. When Hopeless was close to shattering, he tended to hide, and he was definitely hiding now—in his Council work, in the minds of the petty bureaucrats of the Sanctuary. He was hurting, possibly worse than any of them except Ghastly, because he wanted to fix what had gone wrong and couldn’t do that without seeing them in person, and then feeling every moment of their rage and betrayal. So he was avoiding them altogether. Had he suspected this was how things would turn out? Had he been _prepared_ for those emotions, reflected six-fold?

The Dead Men, as a group, were too broken to put themselves together. That meant the person who could usually _put_ them back together was too broken to do it himself.

Dexter could try. He talked to Anton, he talked to Rover, he even talked to Erskine, and all the while he tried to act like nothing had changed. But he couldn’t help Hopeless. The only person who wouldn’t send Hopeless’s head spinning with guilt or fury was too busy chasing the armour.

“I need to shower,” said Dexter, and rose to do that. Morwenna rose with him, and caught his arm.

“Dexter,” she said, “tell me what happened at Clearwater.”

“We gave you our report.”

“But you left some things out. The only reason Guild isn’t still pestering you about what happened between you all is because Hopeless punched him after he demanded answers one too many times.”

Unexpectedly, Dexter laughed. “Is that why Guild had the raccoon eyes and fierce scowl last week?”

Morwenna smiled faintly, but it faded fast. “There are other things. Dexter, you were the one who fought the Baron with Solomon, but all your report said was that Solomon managed to overcome the Baron’s control of the armour long enough to kill him. What really happened?”

Dexter looked at her, into her eyes, and realised just what he’d done. Of course Morwenna would want to know details. Wreath had been her student. Wreath had helped her with Tome, even though it probably put him at risk within the Temple. And yet Morwenna had submitted to the Dead Men’s desire for silence, and hadn’t asked. Until now.

He sat again, and heavily, wondering where to start. Maybe at the part he barely understood. “The Baron—or the armour—broke his cane.” He winced and touched the side of his face. “Made it explode, actually. It got us both pretty good.”

Morwenna sat beside him, but her eyes widened slightly. “His cane was broken?”

Dexter nodded. “I think that’s why he was able to get so close. He didn’t have a weapon. The armour didn’t see him as a threat. He was able to touch it, with his bloodied hand. I’m fairly sure I saw him mutter a spell.” All the blood drained out of Morwenna’s face, but when he stopped to let her speak she didn’t. So he continued. “He distracted the Baron by asking him some questions about Vile, and then he controlled the armour and impaled the Baron to death while he was still inside it.”

“Did he—” Morwenna’s voice broke and she stopped, gazing out across the gym with her back rigidly straight. When she spoke again her voice was even. “Did he explain how he managed it?”

“He said that when necromantic items are forged, a key component is the blood of its user.” Dexter had been thinking about this a lot. It actually made a lot of sense. Blood was binding, like names were binding, just in a different way. That was probably how necromantic items knew when they were being touched by someone other than their owner.

“It is,” Morwenna said, her brow pinched with worried tension. “But another necromancer can’t just come along and impose their will upon an item with a bit of blood and a hurried binding spell. It doesn’t work that way.”

Dexter’s heart sank and his gut tightened. “How does it work?” he asked. “Everything about this reeks of various unpleasant things, Morwenna. How could the Baron use the armour when everyone knows necromantic objects only accept one owner?”

“The assumption was that it was because Vile is dead,” said Morwenna, “but that wouldn’t allow Solomon to cast a blood-binding spell.”

She lapsed into silence. Dexter waited before breaking it. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you want me to hunt down the armour, or something similar. Well, to do that I need to know how it works. How it even _exists_. What does it take to create a necromantic object that strong?”

Morwenna shook her head. “Vile was different. He came in already wearing the armour. Everyone assumed he was a necromancer from another Temple, or possibly an acolyte who had left and trained himself in secret, and therefore knew how items were forged.”

“How _are_ they forged, Morwenna?”

She hesitated. She hesitated and her gaze flickered, but Dexter waited patiently for her to realise that she had nothing to lose by telling him. She’d already been excommunicated by the Temple, and even if they dared to target the Irish Grand Mage, the Irish Temple wouldn’t have time to do so in the wake of its High Priest’s death.

“It’s something of a three-fold process,” she said at last. “The first is somewhat obvious, and while we don’t speak of it, the Temple doesn’t keep it a secret.”

“You mean the fact they’re channelling objects.”

She nodded. Channelling objects weren’t common, just because the materials required were so hard to find, and even more expensive to get. They could be made out of anything—so long as that ‘something’ included both platinum and palladium. One enhanced magic, the other controlled it, and it took a skilled artisan to combine them in a way that wouldn’t make the item blow up the moment magic was channelled into it.

Which was why the Temple was just about the only place which had objects like that. It would also be why most necromantic objects were so small. Just because everyone knew necromantic objects had platinum and palladium in them didn’t mean they knew how to forge them, and everyone also knew that touching a claimed necromantic object without permission led to a very painful death.

It was everything else that was a mystery. How objects were chosen. How they gained an owner. What happened after that owner died.

“You can’t make a new necromantic item every time you give one to an acolyte,” Dexter pointed out. “You couldn’t possibly get enough palladium or platinum for that.”

“You’re right,” said Morwenna. “We don’t. That’s why the blood-bond is important. It means we can pass items down a bloodline.” She reached up to her cloak to touch the brooch pinning it to her right shoulder. “This was my mother’s.”

“So for you the objects are like a clan crest?”

Morwenna laughed and shook her head. “I never knew who she was. Knowing who our parents and children are forges a bond the Temple considers dangerous to the strength of our faith. The Temple and its goals must be our foremost focus at all times. Only the High Priest and possibly one or two of his favourites have access to the scrolls which contain the bloodlines.”

Dexter opened his mouth to ask something else and shut it again, feeling a little sick. If the Temple regulated its bloodlines that closely, to the point that family members didn’t even know who each other were, then he didn’t want to know exactly what sort of lifestyle they had in terms of relationships. Somehow, he didn’t think marriage came into it.

“Sorcerers live for a long time,” he said instead. “That’s no guarantee an object can be passed on.”

Morwenna nodded. “Most of the time, an object is simply reforged.”

“That’s possible?”

“It’s possible, given time and patience,” Morwenna said. “If an object is smelted enough times, the magic of the blood can be strained out. But the blood is only what lays the foundation for the spellwork that binds an object to its owner. It’s necessary, but it’s not the sealing magic. That’s done with the names.”

Names. Plural. Dexter felt a shiver. “Names?”

“Names,” Morwenna repeated. “The given and the taken names. Both. They’re engraved on the object. Those are the sigils that need to be broken before a necromancer can use a family item.”

Dexter was distantly aware of the pound of his heart in his chest. “If an object just had names engraved on it, that wouldn’t be enough to bind an object to a single person, would it?”

“Not as completely as necromancy usually demands, no. But for someone like Vile, it might have been enough, and it might explain why the Baron could use his armour.”

“But would it explain why Wreath could blood-bind himself to the armour enough to override the Baron’s control?” Dexter prompted.

Morwenna hesitated. “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s ever been done before. If Vile didn’t know much about the forging process, he might not have sealed the armour with his names, either.”

Which he hadn’t. Which Dexter couldn’t say. But Wreath had known that, and that was why he’d used the blood-binding, and that was why he’d refused to try and control it any further than killing the Baron. “When we took on the Grotesquery,” said Dexter, “and it attacked Wreath, he instinctively made to use necromancy, even though he didn’t have his cane. That’s when the armour re-appeared and took him over.”

“It’s unstable,” Morwenna said quietly. “A blood-binding, left unfocussed, is powerful but chaotic. That’s why we use the names to cement it. But the armour doesn’t bear Solomon’s names. And with Vile dead, he’s the nearest thing to an owner the armour has.”

Dexter slumped back against the wall. “Well, that’s just great,” he muttered. “I have to go and look for an unstable suit of shadowy armour which has a hostage and has already murdered a prominent member of a religious death cult.”

And Morwenna was wrong. The armour did have an owner. Did that mean Wreath’s blood-bond to it was enough of a pull to avoid it from going to Skulduggery, or did Skulduggery have to be close enough for it to hear him first? Or did he have to try and _use_ it?

All questions to which Dexter didn’t want an answer. He pushed himself up, picking up his bag. “I’ll go look for it,” he said, “but you’ll need to talk the Temple into letting me see the crime-scene.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He just left the Grand Mage sitting there, and made for the showers.


	5. 4

_At first the boy didn’t notice the difference. He was used to getting looks. It was part of being a nobleman’s son, especially an auspicious nobleman like his father. He saw people whispering, too. They stopped when he stared at them, even when he couldn’t hear what they were saying. It was as if they thought he could._

_But it stopped being about people just looking or talking. People always looked and talked. They started talking and not caring if the boy could hear. About how his father was dangerous. How he was a traitor to the Crown. How, if he wasn’t careful, he was going to get his land taken away._

_The boy never said anything to them. But the first time, when he went home, he asked his father why. “Our land is ours,” he said. “It always has been. Why would the King want it?”_

_His father looked at him and sighed, and opened his arms so the boy could crawl into his lap. He was getting too big for it now, and his father understood that, and didn’t offer very often. But the boy knew that sometimes his father found it comforting too, so this time he allowed it._

_“The King believes he is the only one who may decide how to worship the Lord,” the boy’s father explained. “That is why most Englishmen are Protestant. But we are Irishmen. Our faith is Catholic.”_

_“Why is it so different?”_

_“It isn’t,” said his father. “Not really. There are some small differences, but we all worship God and His Son and the Holy Spirit, and that is what should be important.”_

_“Then why does it matter?”_

_“Because the King says it matters,” his father said. “And the King is a very powerful man who sees people who don’t do things the way he says they should be done as a threat. If people don’t do what he says, then he has no authority, and he cannot be a true king.”_

_“And we’re not doing what he says?”_

_“No. The King has outlawed Catholicism. It is illegal.”_

_The boy sat and thought that over for a long time, watching his father’s hands as he wrote a letter on the desk. Then he asked, “If the differences between being Catholic and being Protestant don’t matter, why don’t we worship God the way the King says we should? Then he cannot take our land or call us traitors.”_

_The boy’s father stroked his hair gently—almost sadly, the boy thought. “Many other Irishmen think the same, and have done so, to keep their land. But do you remember that day in the markets a year ago, Kian? When the captain of the King’s Guard tried to send the gypsies away?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“And do you remember why we stopped him?”_

_“Because he was being unfair,” said the boy. “There was no need for the gypsies to leave, just because the King’s Guard don’t like them. It’s like King Solomon said.”_

_“And there is no need for us to change how we wish to worship God,” said his father, “just because the King doesn’t like it. Saying he’ll take away our land is a threat, just like the captain threatened the gypsies. There will always be someone who objects to our beliefs, Kian. If we give in to threats against them, we only prove that such cruelty works. It isn’t easy, and I have lost many friends for refusing the King’s Guard, but I consider those I still have to be more precious than ever.”_

_“But Da,” said the boy with a frown, “doesn’t that mean the King will take our land eventually? Even if he has to send in his Guard like with the gypsies?”_

_His father hugged him. “This land was my grandfather’s, and my father’s, and mine, and it will be yours. So long as I am alive, they will not take it.”_

_After that the boy was more watchful. He realised the King’s Guard had patrols that rode right past their land. He saw people he had thought were friends turn and walk away when they saw his father coming. He saw the King’s Guard laugh and call out smart remarks. It didn’t seem to matter what anyone did or said. The boy’s father was dignified and never got angry, no matter what._

_The boy wished he could be like that. Now he knew what people were saying, and why, it made him furious to hear people talking about his father in such a way. He couldn’t do anything about the adults. They viewed him as a stupid child. He knew from experience that talking to adults like they were wrong would only make them treat him as if he was being purposefully difficult, and then they would refuse to listen._

_But when their children started saying the same things, it was it took everything the boy had not to submit to violence._

_“Be quiet,” he said, trying hard not to let his anger show on his face. “It isn’t true.”_

_“It’s true,” said the other boy. His name was Sean, and he was big, too big to fight. His father, the boy had learned weeks ago, was one of those who became Protestant in return for keeping his land. “Everyone says it. Everyone knows it. Your father is a traitor to the King, Kian.”_

_“The King is a bully,” the boy retorted. “We can’t be traitors to someone we don’t believe in anyway. You’re the traitors. You’re the ones letting him tell you what to do just because you’re afraid, and giving up being Irish to do it.”_

_“Shut up.” Sean clenched his fists. They were in a field near the stream. The field had used to belong to Sean’s father, but the King had bought it a year ago. Sean still came here to fish. The boy used to like coming here to read. No one had minded much, until now, and it was far enough from their houses that Sean could hurt him without anyone knowing._

_The boy stood up straight and looked Sean in the eye. “You’re a coward,” he said. “You’re a coward and so is your father, and even if you hit me it won’t stop it from being true.”_

_“At least my father will be alive,” Sean snapped. “He says your father’s going to hang before the year’s out.”_

_Something very cold settled in the boy’s stomach. His father had said he would make sure the King didn’t take their land as long as he was alive. But if he was dead, nothing would stop them at all. “Take that back.”_

_“No,” said Sean, a look of triumph on his face. The boy wanted to hit it, but his father had always said violence didn’t solve much, and besides, Sean was bigger than him. “Your da is going to hang, just you watch. The King’s Guard will hang him for being a traitor.”_

_“Hang yourself, Sean_ _Maceachthighearna!” shouted the boy. “You and your da too! They’ll never—”_

_Then he stopped and stared, because Sean had turned suddenly to the fishing line lying on the bank on a rock, wearing a very surprised expression. He picked up the reel and turned toward the oak beside the stream. “What are you doing?” he demanded, and there was fear in his voice. “What are you doing? Stop it!”_

_“I’m not doing anything!” cried the boy._

_Sean started climbing the tree, with jerky movements as if he didn’t really want to, but had to. “Let me go! Stop it!”_

_“I told you, I’m not doing anything!” The boy moved closer to see as Sean straddled a high branch clear of any others and squirmed to the end, and tied the fishing-line around a fork. It was strong, sturdy line, but Sean was big. The cold block in the boy’s stomach spread. “What are_ you _doing?”_

_“Stop it!” Sean screamed as his hands tied a noose in the line. “Stop it! Witch! Let me go! Witch!”_

_“I’m not—” It was him, the boy realised. It had to be him. He had told Sean to hang himself, and now Sean was hanging himself. But the boy hadn’t meant it. Not for it to actually happen. “I take it back!” he shouted. He wanted to stop Sean, but his legs wouldn’t move. “I take it back! Don’t!”_

_“Help! Da! Help me!” Sean put the noose around his neck and with terror on his face he jumped off the branch._

_The boy didn’t look away in time. He saw the line snap. Sean hit the rock and then tumbled into the stream, and finally the paralysis lifted on the boy’s limbs, and he ran forward. The stream was deep enough that it took Sean away with it, knocking him against banks and sticks, and before the boy could think Sean was gone._

_For a few moments the boy stood staring at the water. Then he turned and ran toward the house._

_When the boy’s father came back into the house that night, the boy was still curled up on the settee in the sitting-room. His father shook water off his coat and gave it to his valet, and then silently came to sit down. The boy shuffled to give him room and then leaned up against him._

_“Did you find Sean?” he asked, very quietly._

_“Yes,” said his father, and because he didn’t believe in withholding information, he went on. “He’s dead, Kian. His neck and head were broken. It most likely happened when he fell in. He didn’t suffer.” The boy turned his face into his father’s shirt in a way he hadn’t since he was very young. Usually he felt comforted when his father stroked his hair, like he was now, but tonight, he didn’t. His father’s voice was gentle. “This isn’t your fault.”_

_“We were arguing.”_

_“Arguments can get heated,” said his father. “But the turf was green and unmarred, so you were both obviously smart enough not to bring it to blows, and there was fishing-line in the tree. Sean knows he shouldn’t fish from the oak, but he does anyway. That doesn’t make it your fault. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t have known he had fallen in.”_

_Except that it was his fault, thought the boy. He had been thinking it over and over since he had made it back to the house, and there was only one thing that could have happened: he really had cast a spell on Sean. He hadn’t meant to. He wasn’t even sure if it was possible without knowing the right words, but he must have. He hadn’t been able to eat dinner, or supper, and he hadn’t been able to look through his father’s theology books in case Aengus, the major-domo, saw him._

_He still didn’t know what he had done to make Sean do what he said, but Sean had died because of it._

_“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about, Kian?” his father asked gently._

_The boy thought of how Sean had done exactly what he’d ordered. How frightened he’d looked. His words when he screamed. ‘Witch’, he had said. Magic was against the King’s laws. Worse, magic was against God’s laws. It was evil, and he had used it, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his father’s face if he said what had really happened._

_The boy huddled closer, and for the first time in his life, he lied to his father._

_“No. Nothing.”_


	6. 5

When Dexter was done with the shower he calmly packed up his gear, avoided anyone who tried to stop or even look at him, and made his way to Hopeless’s office. It used to be that when one of the Dead Men needed a chat, they’d just head to the mind-reader’s cottage. Hopeless had almost always scheduled his appointments with others somewhere they’d feel comfortable, instead of in his home. His cottage was something of a secret—a safe haven. Just in case.

Dexter felt it was missing the point for Hopeless’s office to have become anything close to ‘safe’, but somehow, the mind-reader had managed it. Maybe it was because he was accessible. Maybe it was because he very rarely turned away someone who just wanted to talk. He’d never had an office before now, at least not one sorcerers would go to, and all of a sudden people who wanted someone to be an ear for their problems were coming out of the woodwork.

Hopeless claimed it helped him to help others. Dexter was reserving judgement.

Either way, when he got to the office and the door was closed, but without the little ‘privacy’ sign on it, he paused. That meant one of the other Dead Men was in there with him. A month ago, Dexter would have shoved the door open and gone in without so much as a knock.

Now, he knocked. And then he waited. A dozen beats later, Hopeless’s returning rap came through the door, hollow like he’d used the wall instead of the desk. Too slow, far too slow. Hopeless only waited until someone knocked out of politeness or to maintain his cover. He’d never bothered when it came to one of them. Dexter’s stomach sank and he pushed the door open, his gaze going first to the desk. Then to the sofa. Then to the other sofa, the one behind the door, most out of view.

Hopeless was on the sofa with Saracen in his arms, and Saracen’s head was buried in Hopeless’s shoulder, and judging by the hitch in his back he was crying.

Dexter felt the blood drain from his face. He shut the door and thumbed the privacy sigil, and dropped his gym bag to go to them. “What happened?” he demanded as Hopeless raised his face. His wet face. Because, of course, when someone was crying on Hopeless’s shoulder, they never ever cried alone. “Hopeless? What—”

Saracen sat up and yanked him down using his sleeve, and Dexter found himself half perched on the sofa with another crying brother in his arms for the second time in a month. He took Saracen’s weight, manoeuvred them both carefully back onto the sofa, and turned sideways so Hopeless could lean into him too. Hopeless took the invitation, gripping Dexter’s sleeve but resting his cheek on Saracen’s head.

“What happened?” Dexter asked again. His stomach felt like a mess of knots. It should have been easy to come up with theories, but anything he might have come up with involved the Dead Men, and that left his thoughts in a whirl of panic.

Both Hopeless hands were full, but he still managed to sign one-handed against Dexter’s bicep. ‘We have to stop Skulduggery finding the armour.’

Dexter exhaled suddenly, so suddenly it came out a little choked, and he wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a sob of relief. “So it’s not something that’s happened yet? It’s something that might happen?” That meant it involved Saracen’s magic, and that meant it could be fixed. Just like that, Dexter’s thoughts found solid footing. He nodded. “Alright.”

Saracen’s breath hitched a little, and his voice came out watery, but mostly it was steady. “You’re not even going to ask why?”

“Tenebrae—”

“Was murdered. I know.”

“Morwenna asked me to—”

“Track down the armour. I know.”

Dexter rolled his eyes. “Saracen, what’s your magic?”

To his surprise, Saracen’s back quivered, and he gripped them tighter. “Don’t. Just—please. Don’t.”

Saracen delighted in pulling the wool over Dexter’s eyes. In fact, now Dexter stopped to actually think about it, he hadn’t seen Saracen react like this to a use of his magic since he was new to the unit. However it worked, he hadn’t really had to view the truly horrible things of war before then. But he’d adjusted. What could possibly set him off like this, now he was a veteran?

A question Dexter didn’t particularly want answered.

“Do you know about how necromantic items are forged, then?”

A hitched breath. “No. No one ... ever covered that.”

“Morwenna just told me. They’re channelling objects. That’s the first part. And they have a blood-bond to their owner. That’s how an object knows when it’s being touched by someone else. But they’re also engraved with the sigils of their owner’s given and taken names. Now, when Skulduggery went into the Temple he wouldn’t have known any of that. He didn’t have any blood to give, which is why the armour can be touched and why Vengeous could wear it as long as he took precautions. But it’s doubtful that Skulduggery knew to engrave his names on it either.”

“So?”

“So Morwenna is assuming the armour took Wreath because he’s the nearest thing it has to an owner now he’s put that blood-binding on it. But do you have any doubts at all that it would recognise Skulduggery as its owner?”

Wordlessly Saracen shook his head. Dexter felt his T-shirt start to cling to his skin from dampness.

“Right,” said Dexter, because he knew that Saracen probably knew better than him about how the armour recognised Skulduggery. “So what happens if he gets too close to it? I don’t want the answer to that question. You know the answer to that question. If you say we have to keep Skulduggery away from it, then I’m not going to argue. But it’s not exactly going to be easy. You know what he’s like when he gets obsessive. So if you can tell me where the armour’s going to be next, before Skulduggery figures it out, I’d really appreciate it.”

Hopeless closed his eyes and turned his face into Saracen’s hair, and the hand not still gripping Dexter’s sleeve kneaded Saracen’s temple. Dexter waited, not _quite_ patient, but patiently enough to be content just holding them until either Saracen or Hopeless could get a grip on Saracen’s emotions long enough to give him some answers.

Saracen’s voice came out muffled. “It’s time-manipulation.”

Dexter blinked. “What? What is?”

Saracen shifted, turning his back to Hopeless chest so he could talk properly and still remain essentially in their laps. “My magic,” he said. “It’s time-manipulation. I erase time.”

For a few long moments Dexter didn’t know what to say, let alone what to do. He looked at Hopeless. Hopeless looked back. “You ... _erase_ it?” Dexter repeated, and while he wasn’t exactly incredulous he couldn’t quite keep the shock out of his tone. Saracen had always claimed he wasn’t psychic, but all of them had always assumed, because Hopeless was his father, that Saracen’s magic had something to do with Sensitivity. Seeing the future, maybe. Not ... this. Dexter had never heard of anyone who could do this, except for Merlin, and the jury was still out on whether he’d ever actually existed. “How?”

“It’s not complete,” Saracen said. “I can’t actually physically travel time. I just ... send my mind back. My memories. And then I change what needs to be changed so some things don’t happen.”

Dexter’s mouth went dry, and his perception of the last two centuries reorganised. Every time Saracen had told them there was danger ahead. A cliff, a sniper, a bomb. Every time he’d warned them when the enemy was going to attack. Every time he _just knew_ something bad was about to happen. “How many times have you seen one of us die?”

How many times had he experienced something, gone back, _re-experienced it_ , until he got things right? How many times had Hopeless been a silent witness to the memories of their own deaths? Not just theirs, but—

Dexter clutched Saracen closer. “How many times have _you_ died?”

“You don’t want to know,” Saracen whispered.

“So that time with that former friend of yours who knew you were a sorcerer and set up that elaborate plan to capture you, and wound up stabbing you in the gut—”

“Yes.”

“ _How many times_ , Saracen?”

“Four.”

Four. Four times Saracen got stabbed in the gut, and they only remembered one of them. Dexter wanted to laugh. It was a ridiculous urge, but he couldn’t help it. _Four times_. “Well, that was stupid. What went wrong that you had to do that over _four times_?”

“The first two times was just out of surprise. Sometimes that happens, especially back then, when I wasn’t used to pain. The third time was because you tried to come back and save me too early, and he killed you. And you know what happened the fourth.”

 _Now_ Dexter wanted to cry. He swallowed hard, managed to keep the lump in this throat down, but was aware that he didn’t quite keep in the tears when Hopeless brushed one off his cheek. Well, fine. He had more important things to think about than crying in front of Saracen and Hopeless.

Like asking the question he really did not want answered.

“What happened when Skulduggery found the armour, Saracen?”

Saracen’s breath caught. His voice cracked. “He took it back. He thought he could control it, because it used to be his. But, Dex—the armour. It’s too powerful. It can think. It couldn’t think when Skulduggery used it, because he created it and he doesn’t have a brain and didn’t give it his blood, but Wreath’s given it his blood.”

Ice flooded through Dexter’s veins. That numbing iciness of dread. “It’s feeding off him?”

“It’s learning from him,” said Saracen. “It _learned_. It doesn’t want to go back to Skulduggery. But when he took it by force—”

It was ready for him. Skulduggery hadn’t been able to control it. Dexter was vaguely aware of a ringing in his ears, and distantly heard himself say, “How many of us did he kill?”

“You,” Saracen whispered. “Anton, when he arrived to back you up. He was too late. Rover, when he tried to help. Dad.”

His voice broke, and he said nothing else, but Hopeless grip on him tightened. Dexter stared across the room, aware of the warm bodies in his arms, but feeling cold. Saracen wasn’t just seeing the future. He was living it, and then changing it. He’d witnessed Skulduggery murdering his own brothers. Because Skulduggery insisted on being an idiot, on handling things on his own.

It hadn’t happened. Maybe it wouldn’t happen now. But Skulduggery had still been willing to risk becoming Vile again, and for what? To save a necromancer he hadn’t even been friends with for centuries, when his own brothers were still there and waiting for him, wanting to fix him? And this wasn’t a Skulduggery from the future. This was their Skulduggery, here and now. It was why Skulduggery wanted to find the armour. To take it back.

Dexter had been willing to forgive Skulduggery because Skulduggery had proven he was willing to at least _try_ and make up for his horrific crimes. But if he meant to make the same mistake over again, for so little reward—

Dexter wasn’t sure how they were meant to come back from that. Or that they should. The Dead Men were brothers. You couldn’t come back from being willing to murder your brothers.

Hopeless’s fingers twisted in his sleeve and dug so sharply into his arm that it bruised. The pain was enough to drag Dexter back from that awful numbness, and he looked back at Hopeless. The punch in his gut when he looked at the mind-reader’s face was enough to shatter it completely. Hopeless had already been weeping. Now he was sobbing, with a shattered sort of hopelessness written all over his face which Dexter had never seen there before. His lips were moving.

“Please,” he begged wordlessly. “Please. Please. Please.”

_Please don’t give up._

_“How do you do it?”_

_“Do what?”_

_“You’re terrible at playing innocent. You know what. We’re in the middle of a war, Hopeless. You experience death every single day like you’re the one dying. You feel all our pain and all our guilt. Why aren’t you gibbering mindlessly at the hills?”_

_“I’d be lying if I said there weren’t days I got close, early on. But it’s easier now than it was.”_

_“What? Why?”_

_“Because of all of you,. It doesn’t matter if one of you doubts. Everyone has doubts. That just means another one of you will remember why we fight. And that’s enough. As long as there’s someone who hasn’t given up, I can pretend that I haven’t either—long enough to make it true.”_

Dexter exhaled, slow and long, and counted off ten, and then very firmly and sharply cut those thoughts off in their tracks. Hopeless, in so many ways, was just a sum of everyone else’s mental processes. For Hopeless’s sake, Dexter couldn’t give up. And that was actually enough to make him not _want_ to give up. It was easy to just throw in the towel when you didn’t think you had a purpose. Helping Hopeless keep his sanity was a purpose.

So for Hopeless’s sake, Dexter would change what Saracen had already seen happen. That made one person he could save, that he _wanted_ to save, that he would give anything to save.

Saracen. It would kill Saracen, to have to watch his father degenerate into insanity all over again. That made two people.

And for Rover. Over the past month Rover had been showing signs of impending panic. He’d been like that right after the war, too. When the fighting ended and they’d started to go their separate ways, there had been no contact for a year or two. It had been Larrikin who turned up at doorsteps and in apartments in the middle of the night, with a wild grin and a manic sort of desperation in his eyes, and dragged them off to do things together. The Dead Men were the only family Rover had. If they fell apart for good, Larrikin would lose it. So for Rover’s sake, Dexter would make sure Skulduggery didn’t take back the armour. That made three people.

Ghastly. Ghastly should probably have been first on Dexter’s list, except that Dexter honestly wasn’t sure if Ghastly _could_ be saved. But if there was a chance, even the faintest glimmer of a chance, it would die the moment he found out Skulduggery was willing to take the armour back. For Ghastly’s sake, so he wouldn’t have to grow old in four centuries living as a hermit in his little shack of a shop, wallowing in misery because he’d lost his best friends, Dexter wouldn’t give up.

And there were more. Dexter could easily have spun it to include the rest of the unit. He didn’t have to, because it didn’t matter. He felt calmer. He could feel the ground beneath his feet. However angry he was at Skulduggery right now, they were a family, and no matter how angry they got with each other, they had to stick together. Otherwise they would die, or wind up living in such misery that they weren’t really living at all.

If Skulduggery took back the armour, it would all be over. Saracen had already sacrificed Hopeless-only-knew-how-much to change it. Now it was Dexter’s turn. And he _wouldn’t_ do it by being stupidly self-sacrificial. That had only ever been temporarily helpful in the past.

_Yes, I’m talking to you, you self-righteous git._

Hopeless let out a faint, watery laugh, and Dexter managed a tight, tiny grin.

“You know, I’m pretty sure laughing when I’m in paroxysms of grief is what’s known as an inappropriate reaction,” Saracen mumbled into Dexter’s chest.

“That’s because you left your sense of humour in the future,” Dexter said, “which was a stupid thing to do, because things are much funnier from this side of the present.”

“That’s just because your face is in this side of the present.”

Dexter patted his head condescendingly. “Terrible, but since you’ve had to put your training-wheels back on, I’ll forgive it. You know that I’m not going to be able to stay ahead of Skulduggery without help, right? Will you be coming with me?”

If anything went wrong, at least Saracen would be able to fix it.

Saracen shook his head. “I’d be useless.” He sat up a little and spread his hands, then clenched them. “I can send myself back in an eye-blink. That’s it. I just close my eyes and wish. But there’s a system of checks and balances which even I haven’t been able to figure out completely yet. One minute, two minutes—that’s all I can manage without running headfirst into consequences.”

“Like what?”

Saracen’s face, Dexter thought, looked a lot better with a smile on it when it wasn’t also blotchy and red from having been sobbing into his father’s chest after having witnessed the wholesale murder of his family by one of their own. Even when that smile was kind of ruefully humorous.

Rue. Saracen Rue. The outsider who had regrets. Dexter had always wondered why Saracen took that name. Now he knew.

“I sent myself back a week,” said Saracen. “That means for the next week I’m pretty much mortal. And when that week is over, all it means is that I can go back to using my magic for minute-long jumps. I’ll need to wait for it buffer again before I can go longer. If we mess this up again, Dex, I probably won’t live long enough to send myself back a second time. I barely did the first.”

Something in his face flickered at the last sentence, but his voice didn’t break and after a moment he managed to firm his expression. Dexter didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know how close Saracen had gotten to dying with the rest of them, or how desperately he’d had to fight just to survive long enough to _have_ the magic to send himself back.

“Okay,” Dexter said. “I’ll send Gracious and Donegan. They’re on the Isles. They’re good enough that Skulduggery won’t question us asking them to keep an eye on him, and they’ll slow him down.”

“Sure,” Saracen muttered. “If you can talk them into it.”

“They’re the Monster Hunters.”

“That doesn’t mean they’re insane.”

“They’re the _Monster Hunters_. Of course they’re insane.” Dexter leaned back into the sofa and tilted his head, and tugged at Saracen’s lapel. He was wearing pyjamas underneath the jacket. He’d obviously been asleep before he woke up with an extra week’s worth of memories.

Saracen frowned and slapped his hand away. “What was that for?”

“I was wondering if you had a scarf hidden inside your collar,” Dexter said promptly. “I don’t think a long rainbow scarf would go well with pyjamas, but maybe you’ll be able to pull it off better than the wig and the heels you were carrying during the war.”

Saracen’s expression morphed into indignant shock. It was a conscious morph, a forced one, but at the end it was nearly convincing. “Excuse me. Are you doubting my ability to pull off a long rainbow scarf with pyjamas? Are you suggesting that I’d have to _copy_ someone else’s fashion to be _noticed_?”

“You’re only a wannabe Time Lord,” Dexter shot back. “You’re just _trying_ to be all mysterious. Face it, Rue, you need something more obvious. All your fans think you’re psychic.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe that was the point?”

“Where’s the fun in that? Who has ever been anything other than annoyed when you come out with ‘I just know things’? When the Doctor introduces himself as the Doctor, everyone nearby sighs in adulation or pisses their pants. When was the last time your introduction did that?”

“Da-ad,” Saracen whined, leaning back and jabbing Dexter in the chest. “He’s being _mean_ to me! He’s casting aspersions on my Time Lordliness!”

“Oh, _now_ you’re admitting it?” Dexter slapped his hand away. “I knew it. You’re having me on. You’re just trying to make yourself look good. You’re probably already plotting to have Earth invaded by some mysterious alien race.”

“No, that was Mevolent.”

“By _another_ mysterious alien race. Should I be keeping an eye out for a blue police-box? Should I be watching for a debonair Time Lord to appear and fix your mess?”

“I’ll have you know, Vex, that I’m perfectly capable of cleaning up my _own_ messes.”

“You and which army?”

Hopeless rested his head against the sofa’s back, and even though the tears, he laughed.


	7. 6

High Priest Ambi Paenumbra of Italy strode down the corridor with enough speed to make her coat snap behind her. The news was spreading through the Temple like a wildfire, from nation to nation. Many people looked at the Temple and assumed each of the individual buildings were dank, medieval. They were wrong. Necromancers used technology to their benefit as much as any other sorcerer, especially where communication was concerned.

Nor was the Italian Temple either dank or medieval. It was, in fact, within the Holy See, hidden in plain sight as a quiet enclave paying due homage to the Catholic state. It had not begun like that, but the See had grown over it and in the end it was simply more economical to remain. No sorcerer was interested in what lay within the See. Most of them didn’t know where the Temple was, or that it wasn’t any hole in the ground.

Ambi found the door she wanted and swept in without stopping. The necromancers inside turned almost as one, anxious and jumpy, and almost immediately reassured. Ambi had not meant to return from her personal pilgrimage for another week, but she had, fortunately, been keeping contact.

“Have we any news?” she asked, letting one of the others take her travel-stained coat.

“Relatively,” answered Annunziata. She was young to be a cleric, but intelligent, and quite willing to take advantage of the manner in which the Catholic Church overlooked the women among them. That was how Ambi had become High Priest. That was how she had remained High Priest. That was why, when the other Temples bickered and remained aloof, the Italian Temple utilised the Holy See’s right to international diplomacy. The other Temples had no idea just how close many of them came to being discovered and labelled as dangerous Satanic cults.

“There is still no confirmation regarding the murderer,” said Annunziata. “Though most seem to be assuming it was indeed Lord Vile.”

Ambi frowned. “Lord Vile is dead.”

Annunziata spread her hands. “The Irish High Priest had only just finished a meeting with the ambassador from the English Temple. No one saw anyone suspicious on the way out, and there was no sign of break-in or battle.”

“The message I received said he had been stabbed through the chest.”

“With necromantic shadows.”

“Then it can’t have been Vile,” said Ambi, with both confidence and distaste. Vile had been more than powerful enough to be a Death Bringer, but Ambi had never liked him for the role. He had been faithless, concerned only with his own strength. Such a man could never be fit for a saviour. “If it had been Vile, there would have been no evidence of injury. What does the Irish Sanctuary say?”

She looked at the screens in the room, where the recordings of their communications with other Temples were playing. A month ago she had asked Morwenna the truth about what had happened to Lord Vile’s armour. She was in a difficult position, Morwenna. Ambi had not completely cut ties with her once she left the Temple, but they had both known that any true friendship was no longer possible as long as Morwenna served a Sanctuary.

Still, such a powerful relic, belonging to such an evil man, was too dangerous to be in most peoples’ hands. Morwenna had refused to be specific, except to say that Lord Vile had _not_ returned. That was all Ambi truly wanted to hear. If Vile were still alive, Ambi would kill him herself rather than risk him tearing down the foundations of everything she held dear.

It took a moment to realise that no one was answering, and when she looked up to chastise them she saw they were all staring behind her with ashen faces. Something cold struck her gut and Ambi whirled, drawing upon the power of her hair-pin to summon a veil of shadows, but a hammer of magic slammed her up against the wall and held her there, constricting her breath. She saw, behind it, wreathed in darkness, the shape of liquid black armour.

Her clerics snapped out of their stun and attacked. The armour tilted its head and raised its hand, and with one sweep half of them were impaled upon its spikes. Ambi saw Annunziata drop to miss the strike, taking cover behind one of the desks, but when the shadows pulled back the young cleric rolled. A thrill of terror ran through Ambi as she realised that Annunziata planned to attack again, and shook her head just slightly.

Annunziata hesitated. Ambi forced her hand to move, to signal the younger woman to desist. Annunziata shrank back under the desk, and Ambi felt the subtle weavings of a shadow-walk draw together. Annunziata still hadn’t mastered it completely. She would need time.

There wasn’t any time. The last of the older clerics fell. Ambi’s attention was dragged back to the armour as it approached her with a gliding step. Her breathing was laboured, the shadows pressing down on her ribs, and she couldn’t move her hands to direct her magic. All she could do was talk.

“What do you want?”

The armour tilted its head. The voice with which it spoke made shivers of fear run down her spine. “We want you to die.”

Annunziata was a subtle magic-user. Subtle enough, Ambi hoped, that the armour wouldn’t notice her in among the pulse of its own darkness, given enough distraction. Its shadows rose. “Why?”

The armour paused, tilting its head further as if to consider a question that had not occurred. It was almost child-like. Why would it do that? Morwenna had said Vile had not returned, which meant she was either wrong or someone else was in that armour. Either way, they had to know what they wanted. Why would they stop?

“Why?” it repeated.

“Yes,” said Ambi, her breath short. “The Italian Temple has never been unkind to you. Why do you want us to die?”

For a long moment the armour, or whatever was inside it, stared at her. She was starting to wonder if there _was_ anything inside of it. Then, finally, it said, “Because we can.”

Then the pressure rose and Ambi felt a dizzying rush of magic, and hoped part of that was Annunziata escaping before her ribs were crushed into her lungs and she died.


	8. 7

_The countryside passed by on either side in a rush of green. The boy wasn’t precisely interested in horses, but his father was, and kept a very good stable. But the boy had found, over the past year, that there was something to be said for being able to ride away for hours. Especially when he was riding one of the horses, and not just a pony._

_Riding with his father was one of the few ways they could enjoy each other’s company anymore. Sometimes they went fishing. Today, his father had brought a shortbow and a quiver of arrows, in case they saw any pheasants in the small copse of trees on the edge of their land._

_“Hold, hold!” his father called, laughing, so the boy reined in his horse at the meadow’s end and posted as they went trotting out into the lane. He glanced behind him with a grin as his father joined him, more slowly._

_“I see someone has been talking the grooms into letting you ride Furlough when I haven’t been there,” he said._

_“I haven’t been talking anybody into anything,” said the boy, even though it wasn’t quite true. He hadn’t_ meant _to talk anybody into anything, and tried very hard not to. But when he wanted something very much, and he used their name, he’d found they always did what he’d asked, even if they hadn’t intended to before._

_Furlough was his father’s newest and best horse. He was a grey, with a very smooth pace and a very nice jump, and the boy hadn’t seriously wanted to ride him the first time he’d asked. But the groom had let him, anyway, and the boy had been too shocked and a little too scared to say that he hadn’t meant it. And now he simply wasn’t willing to risk his good fortune by asking for any other horse._

_“Oh, so you’ve been stealing him, then!” His father laughed. “My son, the horse-thief.”_

_The boy shrugged and untangled a bit of Furlough’s mane that had got caught under the saddle blanket. “I’ve been watching the grooms train him.”_

_“Perhaps just a hidden talent as a rider, then,” said his father, still amused, and the boy knew he wasn’t really convinced of anything except that the grooms had let him ride the horse. If the boy had been thrown or injured, it would have been a problem, but the boy was a quick learner and his father had always said that if he was going to do anything, he may as well do it well._

_Which was why the boy had learned to ride, even though he’d never given it a second thought a year ago. He knew that learning was his way of justifying that the grooms had let him begin at all. They never needed convincing anymore. They knew he could handle Furlough. He could tell himself that they had known all along, and that was why they’d let him in the first place._

_The problem, when he did think about it, was that he knew it was a lie. He knew it because he’d been noticing it wasn’t just the grooms who let him do things or gave him things they weren’t strictly supposed to. Sometimes, lately, he didn’t even have to actually want it. They just did it. That was what had happened with Furlough. The boy had been sure it wouldn’t work, but it had._

_The boy looked sideways at his father. Sometimes he wanted to ask his father about it—about magic. It was easy to dismiss little things as coincidences, but there had been too many coincidences. The day in the meadow, with Sean, seemed far enough away now that the boy couldn’t quite remember the look on Sean’s face, even though he knew, at the time, it had been terrified. Sometimes the boy could even convince himself that his father wouldn’t react badly, if he only explained things well enough, explained that he hadn’t meant it. That he never_ meant _to make anyone do anything. It was just that sometimes they did._

_The lane ended by turning onto the cobbles of the road, and the boy knew if he was going to ask, it should be now. There might be other people on the road._

_He opened his mouth and then heard the sound of hooves on stone, and closed it again with frustration. Then he frowned. There were an awful lot of horses, and he heard the jangle of metal against metal. “That’s not a passer-by.”_

_“No,” his father agreed. “It’s most likely a patrol. What say we wait here until they pass?” He reached out a hand to take Furlough’s rein, but the boy had already slowed and come to a stop just under a birch by the fence. He gave his father a very arch look, and his father cast him back one of amusement. “And to think,” said the man, “that a year ago you could barely sit up straight on a pony’s back.”_

_The pride in his voice made the boy smile. “I didn’t see the point in waiting to move on to bigger and better things.”_

_“Even though you look like a speck in the saddle?” asked his father._

_“But I’m a very impressive speck.”_

_His father chuckled and the sound was almost lost beneath the stamp of hooves on the road. They waited in comfortable silence for the patrol to pass, but when the sunlight flashed off the tack of the lead horse, the boy saw that the patrol was turning down the lane. He fought off a chill._

_“They have no cause to turn down here,” he said, watching them come into sight one by one. “The lane doesn’t lead anywhere but the meadows and the house.”_

_“I am afraid,” said his father grimly, “they are starting to realise just where the gypsies have been drawing their caravans at night.”_

_“They have no right. This is our land.”_

_“They believe they do,” said his father quietly without looking away from the man with the lieutenant’s bars, “and that is cause enough. Please, Kian. Try and look biddable.”_

_“I’ll_ try _,” the boy muttered, and was rewarded with a flashing smile before the lieutenant drew his horse to a standstill opposite them. His patrol stopped behind him. There were four altogether, and the lieutenant was a young man. The boy could tell at once, from the cut of his uniform, that he was a nobleman’s son whose commission had been bought. He could also tell, from the lieutenant’s sneer, that he wasn’t a man terribly enamoured with anything but his own authority._

_How, the boy wondered, did the King manage to keep an army with so many selfish men in it? Surely the basis of an army had to consist of men willing to listen to someone other than themselves. Otherwise it would all fall apart._

_“Good morning, lieutenant,” said his father pleasantly._

_“Morning,” said the lieutenant shortly, looking them up and down. His lip curled disdainfully when he saw the boy, but then he dismissed him and looked back to the person he saw as the main threat: the man sitting straight and regal in the saddle, instead of the ten-year-old whose horse was by rights far too large for him._

_“What may I do for you today?” asked the boy’s father._

_“Move aside,” said the lieutenant. “You’re blocking our route.”_

_“Strange,” said his father. “You seem to have missed a turn. You see, this lane cuts through the heart of my land. There is nothing ahead of you but meadow.”_

_“We know,” said the lieutenant with an insolent lift of his eyebrow. “We’ve had reports of riffraff in the meadows. We’ve come to flush them out.”_

_“Just the four of you?” the boy asked, looking over the others. They were older and stockier. They looked like fighters. They would probably, the boy had to admit, be enough to drive off a family of gypsies, but more likely they were scouts._

_“There’s no need for that.” The boy’s father gave him a quelling glance before returning his gaze to the lieutenant. “I keep my lands well guarded.”_

_“Not well enough. Unless you’re confessing to sedition.”_

_The lieutenant’s face was very smug, and the boy tensed. To accuse a nobleman of treason was foolhardy at best, but they were here alone and the boy’s father wasn’t well-loved by the English. It wasn’t exactly wrong, anyway, but only because the English had this strange and annoying idea that everyone should have to be ruled by their king, instead of any other way._

_His father didn’t answer straight away. Instead he remained as he was, quiet and still and watchful, until the lieutenant shifted uneasily in his saddle. Only then did the boy’s father speak. “I wasn’t aware that lending aid to travellers was regarded as seditious act by the King.”_

_“There’s aiding travellers,” said the lieutenant, and his voice wasn’t quite as strong as it had been. Then his words came more aggressively. “And then there’s wilfully flouting the King’s orders. One of these days, Molony, you’ll find yourself on the end of a gypsy’s dagger. You and your poor defenceless young son.”_

_The boy felt a sense of foreboding. That had sounded more like a threat than a warning, and the lieutenant wore a little, victorious smile. The boy glanced at the soldiers’ saddlebags. They had been making rather too much noise to be filled with food or water, and the way they bulged looked more like something with sharp edges had been softened by wrappings. The foreboding turned into a sweeping chill, and something rang in the boy’s ears._

_This wasn’t a patrol. This was an ambush._

_“Kian,” said his father quietly, “ride home.”_

_“No,” he said, and his voice shook. He felt sick. They were planning to murder his father. Not because of an accident, or because his father had attacked them—just because he was in their way, and they could use his death to get rid of him and the gypsies at once._

_“Ride home, boy,” said the lieutenant without taking his gaze off the boy’s father. “This is your only chance.”_

_He could, the boy knew. He could go home and live. But no one would believe him when he said the King’s Guard had killed his father, and not gypsies. Not after the soldiers had left their ‘evidence’ lying around a campsite. Or at least, not anyone important, and those who did would be too afraid to do anything about it. And that was if they didn’t have him killed anyway, which they would. They probably wouldn’t even just let him go. They would send one of the soldiers to hunt him down, because they thought of him as a stupid child and they were sure they could catch him._

_If he ran, they would come after him. His father knew it too. But for the first time, the boy realised that his father didn’t know what else to do. It wasn’t a very good plan, but it was the boy’s best hope._

_At least, that’s what the boy’s father_ thought _. Because he didn’t know that his son could do things. Except the boy knew he_ could _do things, and he wasn’t going to leave his father to die and then be used in a lie._

_“What’s your name?” the boy asked the lieutenant, and the question surprised the man enough that he actually glanced over._

_“What does it matter to you?” asked the lieutenant. The boy looked him straight in the eye._

_“So I can tell everyone else who you are when they want to know who to hang.”_

_For a moment the lieutenant looked at him, startled, but then abruptly he laughed. Because, of course, he_ did _think of the boy as just a boy, and the question sounded very naive. It sounded as if he didn’t understand what was going on. That was what the boy had intended._

_The lieutenant bowed mockingly from his saddle. “Lieutenant Andrew Cochrane. These are Sergeant Peter Gerard, and Corporals Theodore Quincy and John Selby.” He waved at the others behind him as he spoke. The boy didn’t let a flicker of triumph show in his expression, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father look at him, and he wasn’t sure he’d managed it. He’d been worried about how to get the other soldiers’ names, but the lieutenant had done it for him. Cochrane dropped his arm and turned back. “There. Now you know who to tell the magistrate to hang.”_

_The boy nodded. “Andrew Cochrane, Peter Gerard, Theodore Quincy and John Selby,” he repeated, looking at each of them in the eye in the exact order Cochrane had indicated them. He felt in his skin a little quiver, and his tongue tingled as if he’d just eaten sherbet._

_“Good,” said Cochrane. “Now that we’re all up to date, if you’re going to run, you’d better do it now.”_

_Gerard was the short, stocky man just behind his lieutenant. Without a flicker on his face, he drew his sword. The man in the back, Selby, unlimbered a shortbow. So that was how they were going to hunt him down. Of course whoever had picked these men had picked them because they wouldn’t care about killing a child._

_If he was fast and got Furlough to jump the fence, he might be able to escape the man’s range. But that would leave his father alone._

_“Kian,” said the boy’s father in a low, urgent voice. “_ Go _.”_

_“Peter Gerard, stab yourself in the chest with your sword,” said the boy, and without any shift in expression Gerard turned the sword around and impaled himself. The surprise only came once he was choking on his blood. He slid sideways in his saddle and toppled to the ground, and his horse shied, reared, and tried to back away, but couldn’t. “Theodore Quincy, dismount.”_

_Cochrane whirled in his saddle. “What—”_

_Quincy, looking shocked, slid out of his saddle as the hooves of Gerard’s horse came down and crushed his skull. The horse whinnied again, panic rounding its eyes as it turned in the enclosed space, and its panic was starting to spread to the other riderless horse._

_“John Selby, shoot Andrew Cochrane.”_

_Selby had already backed up his horse, but now there was nothing but abject terror in his expression as he nocked an arrow. Cochrane’s voice rose loud and alarmed._

_“What are you—”_

_Blood splattered across the boy’s face. He flinched and looked down, and it was only instinct that made him rein in Furlough’s anxious prance to keep the horse in place. When he looked up, John Selby was staring at him with a white face and terrified eyes, but his hands were steady as he lifted his bow and arrow. The boy saw his lips move._

Witch _._

_An arrow plumed in Selby’s chest and the boy flinched again, and it took a moment for him to realise the colours in the tail were his father’s. Selby’s horse reared and its rider toppled limply to the ground. It whirled and took off down the lane, the others gladly took the open escape. Then there was silence in the lane, silence and the heavy metal smell of blood._

_The boy swallowed hard to keep his stomach down. He forced himself to lift his chin and look at his father. But his father wasn’t looking back, being too busy turning his mount in a tight circle so he faced toward the house, and for a moment the boy was relieved._

_“Da—”_

_“We have to go,” his father interrupted, and his voice was very cold and distant, and something else which the boy had never heard before. He sounded afraid._

_The man spurred his horse into a canter. The relief bled into a kind of gut-wrenching dread, and quietly the boy turned Furlough to follow his father down the lane._


	9. 8

Getting into the Irish Temple undetected wasn’t easy. In fact, Gracious was sure it was pretty specifically _not_ easy. They were a secretive bunch, necromancers, and for some reason the death of the Irish High Priest was putting them out of sorts. In different ways, that made it both easier and harder to get into the Irish Temple.

Easier, because half the necromancers were rushing about like chickens with their heads chopped off. Harder, because they fixated on anyone who just _happened_ to not actually be a necromancer.

“This is a pain,” he whispered to Donegan. He wasn’t exactly sure where in the room Donegan was, or how big the room was, or what that thing sticking into his butt was, but he was decently sure Donegan was with him. “I think it’s worse getting in the front-door and then getting stalled. At least if you can’t get in the door, you’re relatively safe. But if you get in the door and can’t go forward, then most of the time you can’t go back, either, and then you’re left stuck half in a hole where there’s not enough space to turn around, and someone’s got a gun to your arse.”

He paused so Donegan could respond, but he didn’t, so Gracious went on. “I don’t think we’re getting paid enough for this. In fact, I don’t recall us being told we’d get paid at all. In fact—”

The door opened. Gracious squinted up into the light and the figure in front of it.

“There you are,” said Donegan. “What are you doing in the broom cupboard?”

“Hiding,” said Gracious, groping behind him to find what was jabbing into his butt and finding a dustpan’s brush. “I thought you were with me.”

“It didn’t clue you in when I didn’t answer?”

Gracious shrugged. “I just thought you were mad I got us seen. Is the way clear?”

“I don’t know about clear,” said Donegan, “but you can come out. That mop isn’t very flattering on your hair.”

Gracious reached up, found the mop, and pushed it away so he crawl out of the cupboard. “Did you find Pleasant yet?”

“He seems to be eluding detection.”

“So he’s probably already at the crime-scene,” said Gracious, “or already leaving the Temple, and we’ll have lost any chance of catching him up before he goes off God only knows where, and then we won’t get paid.”

“I don’t remember Dex promising us we’d get paid,” Donegan mused, giving him a hand up and closing the door again.

Gracious brushed himself off using the dustpan-brush, and then sneezed in the dust. “I was hoping I’d just forgotten exactly how much he’d promised. Which way?”

They took a moment to look around. For the moment the corridor was clear, but there was noise in the distance. The kind of background noise of a place with a lot of people. An _underground_ place with a lot of people, so the noise came with that weird, dull echo.

“That way,” Donegan said at last, pointing down the hall, just as Gracious pointed with the brush in the opposite direction and said, “ _This_ way.” They glared at each other. Then in the distance, past the dull echoing noise, they heard a wordless objection in a rising voice.

“That sounds like someone dealing with Skulduggery to me,” said Gracious, and set off down the hallway with Donegan on his heels. “No one’s going to get in our way if we’re with Skulduggery.”

“Actually, they probably will.”

“But no one will actually be able to _stop_ us if we’re with Skulduggery.”

“That’s true.”

They came around the corner and almost ran into the back of a very broad man in badly-tailored black robes, and as one turned around and bolted back behind the corner.

“Did you see Skulduggery?” Donegan whispered.

“Hold this.” Gracious handed him the brush and reached inside his jacket for his periscope, and poked it around the corner, and put his eye to it. Donegan tapped him on the shoulder. Gracious waved him off. “I can’t see anything but blackness. Hang on a minute.”

“Gracious.”

“Busy, Bane. I’m busy.”

Someone gripped his wrist and moved the periscope, and Gracious looked up to see that the reason he couldn’t see anything but blackness was because necromancers wore black robes, and they apparently had not quite gone unnoticed. The necromancer looked down at him. Gracious looked up, and then grinned and saluted.

“Hi. We’ll just be going now.” He tried to pull back, but for a pale underground-dwelling death-magic worshipper, the necromancer had a strong grip. “Um. Donegan, a little help.”

“Did you happen to see a well-dressed skeleton go past here?” Donegan asked the necromancer.

The necromancer frowned. “ _No one’s_ meant to be in here.”

“That didn’t answer my question,” Donegan pointed out reasonably. “We’re not trying to intrude or anything. Well, we _are_ , but we have a reason. See, we’re investigators. We’re investigating. But we lost our lead investigator, who is probably at the crime-scene by now, so if you could just point us in the right direction I’m sure we can find out way on our own.”

“Are you?” Gracious whispered back without taking his gaze off the necromancer’s frown.

“No,” Donegan whispered back.

The necromancer frowned at them for another second, hesitated, and then slumped. “I’m not high enough up for this. The other clerics are at the crime-scene, with your skeleton. But it’s that way.”

He pointed back down the hall behind them.

“We heard raised voices,” Gracious said. The necromancer shrugged.

“I was arguing with my girlfriend. Well, not really my girlfriend. Sort-of my girlfriend.”

“Only sort-of?” Gracious asked. “That’s sad.”

The necromancer shuffled his feet. “It’s not technically allowed.”

“ _That’s_ sad,” Donegan said, and patted the necromancer’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’re published authors. We’re planning to bring out a book called ‘How to make girlfriends’—”

“Or boyfriends,” Gracious added.

“‘—or boyfriends—and keep them’. Maybe it’ll help you.”

“Yeah.” The necromancer perked up. “Maybe it would. Thanks.”

“No problem. We’ll even autograph it for you.” Donegan pointed. “This way, you said?”

“Down the hall, to the left. Then left again, and then down the hall in the middle on the right.”

“Left, left, middle door on the right,” Donegan repeated, and patted his arm again. “Good luck.”

With a winsome smile Gracious pulled his hand out of the necromancer’s grasp, and then they both turned and walked ever so casually down the hall, around the corner, and broke into a run.

“You know there’ll be more of them near to the office, right?” Gracious demanded.

“Maybe if we run fast enough we’ll get past them before they see us,” Donegan suggested, and put on a burst of speed which made Gracious curse and have to catch up.

“At least let me go first!” he complained. “I’m the one who can punch them better!”

“We’re trying _not_ to attract negative attention,” Donegan reminded him.

“Then why are we pelting through the Irish Necromancer’s Temple like we just stole something?”

They rounded the last corner. Donegan tried to stop. Gracious ran into him. Donegan stumbled forward and collided with the back of the person in front of him. Skulduggery Pleasant turned around with a vague air of tense surprise and said, “Donegan? What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Donegan said, brushing himself off.

“Why do you have a dustpan-brush?”

Donegan looked down at it, shrugged, and put it into Gracious’s hands. “It’s O’Callahan’s. So do we get to see the crime-scene now?”

“I already have,” said Skulduggery.

“Oh, good,” said Gracious. “All that blood and stuff, in an enclosed space underground, that’s going to be hell getting the smell and the stains out. I wasn’t looking forward to that.”

“Nor are we,” said a cool voice, and Gracious peered around Donegan and Skulduggery to see a tall, expressionless necromancer looking down at him.

“Oh. Hi.” He waved.

“This is Cleric Quiver,” said Skulduggery. “He was good enough to let me see the High Priest’s office. Why were you looking for me? The Temple has phone reception.”

“Dexter promised us rewards if we kept an eye on you,” Gracious told him. “I’m hoping he’ll lend me his husband again.”

“Kept an eye on me.”

“He seemed to think you’d need help,” said Donegan, “but I don’t mind skipping seeing the office, if you’ve already seen it. What have we come up with so far?”

Quiver gave him a long look. “Most of those in the Temple believe Lord Vile has returned.”

“That’s really not good,” Gracious muttered.

“You don’t seem terribly surprised,” Skulduggery observed.

“Dexter told us we were going after Vile’s armour,” Gracious said. “He didn’t say anything about Vile being _in_ it, but I can see how people can make that mistake, unless they managed to take his helmet off. Did anyone manage to take his helmet off?”

“There were no witnesses,” said Quiver.

“So no joy on taking his helmet off, then?”

“No.”

“Who do _you_ think it is?” Donegan asked.

Quiver’s gaze shifted to him. It was a pretty freaky gaze, Gracious decided. “It is unlikely to be Lord Vile himself,” Quiver said. “There is no reason for him to have emerged so suddenly.”

“Aside from Baron Vengeous stealing his armour,” Donegan pointed out.

“That is a concern,” Quiver acknowledged, “and while there are some elements of the murder which speak to Lord Vile, his power does not. Anyone who saw him knows he is a silent killer. But this assassin’s use of shadows was ... inelegant.”

“I heard Tenebrae was stabbed through the chest,” said Gracious. “That sounds pretty elegant to me. Short, simple, and fatal. Ergo, elegant.”

Donegan turned to stare at him. “Where did you learn a word like ‘ergo’?”

“Contrary to popular belief, Bane, I do read.”

“You didn’t even read any of your own books.”

“Of course I didn’t. I wrote them. Why would I read any of my own books?”

“Lord Vile wasn’t the type to impale people through the chest,” said Skulduggery. “Through the limbs, head, throat or heart, yes, but compared to those Tenebrae’s wound was the equivalent of using a tank instead of a motorcycle to rush a police barricade. Not particularly elegant.”

“I’ve done that before,” Gracious said. “Rushed a police barricade with a motorcycle. Does that make me elegant?”

“I think we’d have to work on your dress-sense first,” Donegan told him.

Gracious looked down. “What’s wrong with my dress-sense?”

“You’re wearing jeans. Dusty jeans.”

“That’s what the brush is for.”

“It’s not even your brush.”

“I left mine behind.”

“You don’t even own a dustpan.”

“Shut up, Donegan.” Gracious turned the brush on himself to clean up his jeans. “So you’re saying it’s not Vile based on the fact he used a two-by-four instead of a stiletto. Maybe he just needs to recover from being dead, or wherever he’s been for the past century.”

“You realise that we’re going _after_ him?” Donegan asked. “Why are you arguing for him _being_ Vile?”

“I’m hoping we’ll all come to our senses and go home.” Gracious handed Donegan the brush and turned around. “Can you get my arse? I don’t think they clean out that broom-cupboard very often.”

Skulduggery sighed. “Dexter asked you to keep an eye on me, you say?”

“He thinks you’ll go off and do something stupid if you didn’t have a babysitter,” Donegan admitted.

“Like go after Lord Vile all on your own,” Gracious added. “Something about how last time that happened, it didn’t go very well and you wound up getting held captive for five-odd years.” Donegan turned the brush and hit Gracious on the butt, and Gracious yelped, reaching back to snatch the brush out of his hand. He glared, rubbing his backside. “That hurt.”

Donegan crossed his arms. “Stop talking like it’s Lord Vile. It’s not Lord Vile. It’s that other bloke.”

“How do we know that other bloke _wasn’t_ Lord Vile?”

“Other bloke?” Quiver asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh.” Gracious hesitated, and looked at Donegan. “Were we not meant to say that?”

“I don’t know. Dexter didn’t give us much in the way of rules.”

“Would we have obeyed them if he had?”

“Probably not.” Donegan turned to Quiver. “The bloke you sent to help out with the Baron. Wreath. He’s trapped inside the armour.”

“ _Inside_ the armour?” Quiver repeated with a frown. “You mean the armour is alive?”

“ _I_ don’t know,” said Gracious, clutching his brush and still rubbing his backside. “I’m an expert in many things, but sentient armour that once belonged to the most powerful and evil necromancer in history doesn’t count.”

“That, or Gracious is right and this Wreath fellow actually was Lord Vile,” Donegan pointed out.

“He wasn’t,” Quiver said with that sort of calm certainty you couldn’t really argue against.

“How do you know?” Gracious demanded.

“Because Solomon Wreath helped Lord Vile train,” said Quiver without batting an eyelash at the fact that Gracious had, in fact, argued. “It was how he was granted his rank as cleric. It is impossible that the two of them should be the same person.”

“Oh. So he’s just a captive then.”

“There is too little in the way of information to tell whether he is captive or culprit,” said Quiver evenly, “though certainly such an assassination is unlike Wreath. What do you intend to do now?”

This last was directed at Skulduggery, who had been silent for a few moments in favour of observing Quiver with a tilted head. The skeleton’s head straightened with a little shake, as if to break himself out of his thoughts. “Now we go after the armour,” he said simply. “Wherever it might be.”

“I see.” Quiver looked at him for a long moment.

“I don’t suppose _you_ know?” Gracious asked.

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because we’re helping to investigate the murder of your High Priest?” Donegan suggested.

“You are outsiders,” Quiver said. “We have no reason to trust you, let alone want your aid. However.” He was still looking at Skulduggery. “ _You_ , Skeleton Detective, have a reputation for hunting down those involved in the war, and succeeding. Serpine. The Baron. The armour may not be Lord Vile, but our High Priest was brutally murdered within his own office tonight. I do not believe this is the time to reject help when offered. The armour was last seen in Italy.”

“What was it doing in Italy?” Gracious wondered.

“If I had to guess,” said Skulduggery, “I would say murdering the Italian High Priest.”


	10. 9

When Dexter asked Saracen exactly where the Italian Temple was located, Saracen hadn’t been able to give him a straight answer. He had been able to give Dexter a list of exactly which High Priests were going to be murdered over the course of the night, and in which order, but hadn’t been able to recall exact times, so Dexter resorted to going to the first on the list.

Which did not in the least bit tell him where the Temple _was_. And, when he spoke to his few contacts in Italy as well as a number of sorcerers whom he’d never met before, none of them could tell him either. In fact, some people insisted there _wasn’t_ a Temple in Italy. Since Saracen said there was, Dexter deferred to his judgment over theirs.

Which left Dexter to investigate using his own good judgment (which was not always good, as Anton pointed out when Dexter accepted Rover’s proposal) and not always accurate (as _Rover_ had pointed out when Dexter assumed he was the husband). In this case, however, it was simply a matter of asking Hopeless, who in true Hopeless fashion had somehow known where the Temple was in spite of the fact that Dexter didn’t remember him ever having met an Italian necromancer before. Either way, Dexter found himself standing in front of the Vatican wondering how he was meant to get in at this time of night and without the right legal papers.

So it was fortunate when the shadows beside him moved. Well, it was fortunate when the culprit behind those shadows turned out not to be a lethal and genocidal suit of armour, but a somewhat attractive young woman in what looked, at first appearance, to be wearing a nun’s habit.

Dexter looked her up, down and said in Italian, “I thought magic was against the Catholic doctrine.”

“It is,” said the nun-necromancer, “but the usual attire would attract attention, and there is very little difference. We are not required to wear the wimple.”

“That’s good. They’re heavier than they look. Bad on your neck. What’s your name?”

“Annunziata,” said the young woman, “and you are Dexter Vex.”

Dexter gave her his best smile. “That’s me. I don’t suppose you know how I can get inside?”

“Outsiders are not allowed inside the Temple.”

“I noticed that,” Dexter said, “given that three different people insisted that there wasn’t even a Temple in Italy.”

Annunziata shrugged. “It ensures we are left alone.”

“Maybe you could make an exception?” Dexter suggested. “I was hoping to see—”

“The crime-scene,” said Annunziata. “Yes, I know, and no, I may not. I have something else to offer.”

“If it’s information, I’d be able to tell more by seeing the scene myself.”

“But if you had a witness, that would be more valuable, yes?”

Dexter blinked and then looked at her. She was composed, still too young to really be called stern in spite of the tight, bound-up plait her hair was in. She couldn’t exactly be called _pretty_ , being too angular in the face and shape, but there was something arresting about her eyes. Dark, and placid, but with that sense that there was something dangerous watching and choosing not to act.

“You witnessed the High Priest’s death,” he said slowly. “How did you escape?”

“High Priest Paenumbra bade me flee instead of fight,” said Annunziata, “and I have always been complimented on my subtle use of magic. Lord Vile was too preoccupied to notice.”

Her tone was even, but Dexter thought he heard a trace of self-recriminating bitterness in her voice. If this had actually been Vile, Dexter would have assumed Vile left her alive for a reason. But it wasn’t, and that was what gave Dexter hope that she really had slipped beneath the armour’s notice. “Alright. Why don’t we go back to my hotel and you can tell me what you saw?”

“No,” Annunziata said. “I am not simply giving you information. I want a trade.”

“A trade for what?”

“I will tell you what I saw, and then I will come with you to find Lord Vile and kill him.”

Which, frankly, did not surprise Dexter at all. He studied Annunziata for a moment. “You said the High Priest ordered you to escape. Why you?”

“I believe I was the only one to see her order.”

“See?”

“She was being choked. She could not speak. And she did not want to draw attention to me.”

“But you weren’t the only one in the room.”

She shook her head, and now her brow was crinkled with confusion. “The others were all killed.”

It was a vague thought which didn’t quite lead to a conclusion, and after a moment Dexter shook it off. Chances were, it was just Annunziata being in the right place at the right time. Either way, she obviously felt beholden and guilty, and Dexter couldn’t blame her for wanting to find Paenumbra’s murderer. He could use an experienced necromancer as a sounding-board, not to mention someone to watch his back. He could trust that Annunziata wanted the same thing he did. Mostly.

“Alright,” he said finally. “You can come with. But let’s not talk here. Back at the hotel.”

If Annunziata was relieved, she didn’t show it. “Lead the way.”

His hotel wasn’t exactly a hotel, and he was paying extra from having walked off the street in the middle of the night. Fortunately no one commented on the fact that he was bringing in a lady without any warning, although that might be because of the nun’s habit. Maybe they assumed he needed urgent spiritual advice. Either way, within half an hour they were inside and in private. Dexter offered her the only chair and then sat on the bed.

“Alright, go ahead then. What happened?”

Annunziata didn’t take the chair. Instead she moved around the confines of the room, picking up and setting down objects, as if she was exploring. Dexter wondered how often she had been outside the Temple, or even Vatican City. No wonder half the people he spoke to insisted there was no Temple here. Who would suspect necromancers within the Catholics’ most sacred grounds?

“Our most prominent clerics had met to discuss what occurred in your own Ireland,” Annunziata said. “High Priest Paenumbra had been away on a religious pilgrimage, but she returned unexpectedly, much to our relief. She had already heard about High Priest Tenebrae, and how he had been murdered. She did not believe Lord Vile was responsible.”

“She didn’t think he was capable?”

“She felt the manner of death did not match Lord Vile’s modus operandi.”

“It doesn’t. Not the details.”

“She had just asked about the Irish Sanctuary when Lord Vile appeared behind her.”

“Wait.” Dexter raised a hand, and Annunziata paused to look at him. “She asked about the Irish _Sanctuary_? Why?”

Annunziata regarded him with a faint air of surprise. “High Priest Paenumbra and Grand Mage Crow used to be good friends. Did you not know?”

“No,” said Dexter grimly, “I didn’t. Go on.”

“It was known to us that Baron Vengeous had found and used the armour for his own purposes,” said Annunziata. “High Priest Paenumbra did not approve of Lord Vile. I suspect she had asked Grand Mage Crow for details regarding the armour.”

“Do you know what they said?”

“No. But she was confident Lord Vile was not responsible for High Priest Tenebrae’s death. Then he was there behind her.” She looked away. “The rest of us were too stunned to act, at first. She realised something was amiss and attacked, but he disarmed her and held her against the wall, and killed half of those in the room with one volley. I had meant to attack with those remaining, but she signalled me to flee instead.”

“And that’s when you shadow-walked out?”

A dull flush rose in her cheeks. “I have had … some trouble with shadow-walking. My control of magic is refined, but I have very little in terms of reserves. Most necromancers with such a deficit of raw power cannot shadow-walk at all.”

“So it took you time to gather the power,” Dexter observed, “while the armour was distracted.”

Her brow knitted together. “It was strange. The High Priest was obviously attempting to draw attention from me, but Lord Vile’s reaction seemed uncharacteristic from what I have heard of him.”

“He spoke?” Dexter felt a chill run down his spine.

“Yes. But little. She asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted her to die. She asked him why. There had been no affiliation between him and the Italian Temple; there is no reason why he should target us. But he seemed confused by the question. He had to stop and think.”

“Did he answer?”

Annunziata nodded. “He said, ‘because we can’. That is when I left.”

They fell silent, and Dexter gazed out the window while his mind raced. He hadn’t been doubting Saracen, but this was direct evidence that what Saracen had claimed was accurate. The amour was learning, had probably been learning since it took Wreath. It was like a child, though: it was only aware of its own desires, and followed through on them. Any motive beyond that only confused it.

Dexter turned his attention back to Annunziata. “You said it said ‘because _we_ can’, is that right?”

Annunziata drew her gaze away from wherever it was, and blinked at him. “Yes?”

“Did it talk like that the whole time? In the plural?”

Annunziata frowned, and spoke slowly, as if in realisation. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

So the armour was learning, but not enough yet to have a self-identity beyond Wreath, or Skulduggery, or both. Did that mean killing the High Priests was its own desire, or Wreath’s, or Skulduggery’s? Hopeless had said that Tenebrae had wanted to use Skulduggery as some kind of Temple saviour. Maybe the armour was taking revenge on everyone it saw as having been willing to use it. But if that was true, why had it skipped over all the Temples in-between Ireland and Italy? It can’t have reached Rome in a single shadow-walk.

“Why do you keep saying ‘it’?”

“Hm?” This time it was Dexter’s turn to blink.

“Why do you keep saying ‘it’?” Annunziata repeated patiently. “And before, you specified the armour, but not Lord Vile. Why?”

Dexter hesitated. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, say anything about Skulduggery, obviously. But there were other things he could tell, her, things she may be able to give insight in as they went. “Because your High Priest was right,” he said finally after a moment. “It isn’t Vile. If anything I suppose you could say it was an echo of him, but the armour is acting on its own.”

Annunziata stared. “Impossible,” she said. “Necromantic objects are powerful, but they are not alive. Not truly. Anyone who claims so is telling stories.”

“The armour was temporarily worn by someone who wasn’t a necromancer,” Dexter pointed out. “And it’s taken a hostage—Solomon Wreath of the Irish Temple. He managed to stop the Baron from using the armour by forging a blood-bond between himself and it, but now it’s taken him over. It’s feeding off him. Learning from him. Probably using his vocal chords, come to think of it.”

“You know about the blood-bond?” Annunziata asked sharply. Dexter lifted an eyebrow.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I was there when Wreath used it. And yes, for the record, he told me why.”

“That is against Temple law.”

“It’s a good thing for him he did. Otherwise we’d be even more in the dark.” He paused. “No pun intended. That’s why I’m going to let you come with me; because the armour is a necromantic object, and you’re a necromancer, and I need context.” Dexter found the folded page in his pocket and leaned forward, holding it out. “Like with this. It’s a list of all the High Priests who are going to be murdered by the armour over the next week, by day and in order.”

Annunziata took the page, her keen gaze glancing down the list. “Where did you—oh, of course. Saracen Rue.”

“You’re very up on your war-stories.”

She gave him a look from under her brow. “Wisdom is recognising the lessons of the past. But to do so, one must first have knowledge of that past. What do you want to know?”

“Which one should we go to next?” Dexter asked. “The names immediately after Paenumbra’s are probably already dead, but the armour’s travelling east, and the further it goes, the longer it will take us to get there. We can’t afford to waste any time. Who would listen if we got there in time to warn them?”

She gazed at him for a moment, and then folded up the paper. “You’re hoping to ambush the armour when it arrives at one of the Temples?”

“It’s the best plan we’ve got.” He grimaced. “It’s also the only plan we’ve got.” For a very long moment Annunziata was silent, and Dexter’s eyes narrowed. “ _Is_ it the only plan we’ve got?”

Annunziata looked away. “There ... might be an alternative.”

“But?”

“But telling you would constitute breaking Temple law.”

Dexter regarded her and then said very evenly, “Then I suppose you’d better decide what it’s worth to you to avenge your High Priest’s death.”

Annunziata sat in the chair he’d offered, and for a long time she didn’t say anything at all. Dexter got up to make them both a cup of tea, which Annunziata accepted with a quiet nod. Dexter took his seat again, and waited, and eventually Annunziata spoke again.

“We should go to India.”

Dexter frowned. “None of the Temples on the list are in India.”

“No,” agreed Annunziata, “because there _are_ no Temples in India. Nor are there necromancers.”

That ... was actually unexpected. Dexter had done a lot of travelling, and although he hadn’t exactly hunted each of them down, Temples were so pervasive that it was a decent assumption that they were everywhere. Except that now Annunziata was telling him there was a nation, a very large nation, where necromancers didn’t exist at all. Why? How?

“Then what do you expect to find there?” he asked, baffled.

She looked at him, and he thought she almost smiled. “The worshippers of the goddess Kali.”


	11. 10

Dexter hadn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours and Anton wasn’t due for a location-shift until later in the morning, so Dexter called him to request pick-up and then spared the time to sleep. After the business with the Baron the Hotel’s wards had needed upkeep, and in spite of the urgency there was no need to ask Anton to break pattern again when Dexter needed the rest anyway.

It had still been a long time since he’d had to work on such little sleep, especially after a month of restless nights, so he was yawning when he met Annunziata outside Rome.

“I have news,” she said, and he waved a hand for her to continue. “Of a sort,” she amended. “It only confirms what you already knew.”

“Other murders?” Dexter asked.

Annunziata nodded. “Exactly as Rue predicted.”

If only she knew, Dexter thought. If only everybody knew. “Then we’d better not waste any time.”

And then he smiled ironically at his own train of thought.

The Midnight Hotel’s transitions had one loophole: Anton could make ‘stop-offs’ without damaging the wards so long as he didn’t give the Hotel time to settle into its cradle. It wasn’t something he enjoyed doing very often, but he was willing to compromise given enough incentive. Dexter felt that this was enough incentive.

The moment the Hotel had grown up out of the ground Dexter hefted his bag and went in the door, with Annunziata close behind, and made his way to the desk. There were a few people around waiting to check in, but Dexter shouldered past them. “Kuknur,” he said to Anton before his friend could ask. Anton lifted an eyebrow. “It’s urgent, Anton, please.”

Anton glanced over Dexter’s shoulder at Annunziata. “You’re taking a necromancer into India?”

“How do you know about that?”

“It isn’t the first time I’ve taken a necromancer to India,” Anton said, “or helped one flee the country, and it is always the same people from whom they’re fleeing.”

“I’m starting to think there’s a side to you we’ve never seen, Anton,” Dexter observed. He came around the desk to find Anton’s money-chest, kneeling to change some of his Euros for rupees. “It’s a risk, I know. And I assume Annunziata knows too. But that’s our best chance for rendering certain over-powerful objects impotent, so that’s where we need to go, and unless you want to do some more unexpected maintenance on the wards, you’d going to have to take us quickly.”

Anton glanced at the other patrons gathered around the desk, who were, for the moment, willing to keep their distance (and staring with undisguised fascination at the pair of Dead Men). Then he sighed and activated the intercom. “Hotel transition in progress.”

He turned around to the map still visible behind him and traced the ley-lines from Italy to India. There came that familiar shudder and thud of the Hotel’s foundation settling. Dexter closed the box and rose, and slapped the desk. “Cheers, Shudder. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Good,” Anton said as he turned back around. “I need help cleaning all the window-screens, and it’s Friday. Larrikin is training Valkyrie.”

“I take it back.” Dexter blanched as he turned toward the door.

“We’ll be here for another twelve hours, in the event you finish your business early,” Anton added.

“I said I take it back!” Dexter called over his shoulder, hot-footing it out the exit.

“You’re still an hour’s northerly walk from Kuknur,” was the last thing Dexter heard from his friend.

The heat struck him in the face like a wall, and he groaned. “Walking? In this heat? That was mean.”

“But necessary,” said Annunziata, coming to his side at a more sedate pace. Her expression was impassive, though Dexter was certain there was amusement in her eyes. “The Temple in Kuknur is the oldest Kali temple in the world. It is likely itself located on a confluence of leys. I understand that would interfere with the Hotel’s transition, yes?”

“Probably,” Dexter admitted, “if it’s warded. What’s so important about this temple, anyway? You haven’t explained _why_ we need to see the worshippers of Kali yet, and we’ve got an hour to kill.”

It was a risk, coming here instead of trying to head the armour off at another Temple—especially given that Dexter didn’t know why. But Annunziata had reason to want to catch the armour, properly catch it, and she had said there was information in the Italian Temple which she needed before they could leave.

“Yes,” Annunziata said softly, staring ahead as they walked. “This armour belonged to Lord Vile, and it is extremely powerful. The Baron has proven its user can still be defeated, but it was a necromancer who defeated him, and a necromancer it now uses. What were the odds you could have successfully ambushed it and freed Wreath, if that indeed was your intent?”

“Not good,” Dexter admitted. “Freeing Wreath is the preferred end, but I wasn’t expecting that to be possible. And even if we’d killed him, there’s no guarantee it would stop the armour.”

“Precisely.”

“What does this have to do with worshippers of Kali?”

For a moment Annunziata was silent. Then she asked abruptly, “What do you know about the inception of the Temple?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Dexter said. “My father was born a sorcerer, and his mother was born a sorcerer too. Necromancers have been around for as long as they could remember.”

“Most necromancers don’t want to remember how we came to be,” said Annunziata. “I doubt most of the Temples even still retain any part of that era in our history as an order, but the Italian Temple was able to secure some old histories during the time of the Roman Empire. Even then, most of them choose to forget.”

“But not you.”

Annunziata shook her head. “I enjoy history. It’s a window to our past, and we can learn from our ancestors’ mistakes. The Temple’s inception fascinated me _because_ there is so little information about it. It’s as if our forefathers were ashamed, and I wanted to know why. Why would they erase such an integral part of our history?”

“Let me guess,” said Dexter, “they _were_ ashamed.”

“So they were,” Annunziata agreed softly. “It took me decades to find out the details. I only discovered them last year, because of Grand Mage Crow.”

“She was the one who told you?”

“No. I was in the library when I overheard her arguing with High Priest Paenumbra. It was just after Master Crow had become Grand Mage. She used to come to use our library regularly, even as an Elder, but once she became Grand Mage, High Priest Paenumbra began refusing her. Master Crow’s research was the only thing I ever heard them disagree on.”

“What was it?”

“The manner of our faith,” Annunziata said simply. “Many necromancers doubt. Most of those who leave the Temple return in some fashion. Master Crow was different. She left some of our tenets, but not all; and she remained invested in our people. It was simply that she believed the foundation of the Temple’s belief was flawed.”

“None of which explains why we’re hunting down Kali-worshippers,” Dexter pointed out.

“That _is_ why. Grand Mage Crow was studying the origins of our order. She found it. That was what she and the High Priest argued about. Necromancy in its original incarnation of magic originated in India, within the Kalikula form of Shaktism.”

Dexter shook his head. “I’ve been to India, but I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

A corner of Annunziata’s mouth turned up. Dexter couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or condescension. Or possibly both. “Shaktism is a denomination of Hinduism which focuses on the Divine Mother as the absolute Godhead. The Kalikula worship the goddess Kali as that aspect. Kali’s name means black, time and death all at once. She is both creator and destroyer, mother and killer, mistress of change. The supreme being, beyond time itself.”

It sounded both a lot like necromancy and a few dozen steps to the side. “Necromancers worship death, don’t they?” Dexter asked. “Were the original necromancers Kalikula?”

“Yes,” Annunziata admitted, “and no. Necromancers don’t worship death, Master Vex. We fear it. We seek to master it. The Kalikula view death as something to be welcomed and venerated. They contemplate the frightening and worship it.” She looked straight ahead as she walked, her pace steady and unhurried, almost as if she was in a world of her own. “The precise details are unknown. The documents we possess are fanciful and legendary, written like myths. A long time ago, a handful of Kalikula saw the power of the goddess and coveted it. They took the magic she had given them and twisted it, and used it to control death itself. Such was their success that they taught it to others, and soon it became a twisted shadow within the Kalikula.”

“And then they were discovered,” Dexter guessed. Annunziata nodded.

“The Kalikula executed their leaders, but the followers of the new order claimed their right to overcome death and fought back. The war lasted a long time, but in the end, the Kalikula won. The necromancers were driven out of India, and forbidden to ever return on pain of a true death. That is our origin, Dexter Vex. The followers of the Temple are all refugees.”

She fell silent. So did Dexter. For a while they walked like that, following the thin trail through the rainforest. Then, finally, Dexter spoke. “You said that Kali is a goddess of death.”

“Yes.”

“Would her worshippers will know how to bind the armour permanently, without killing Wreath?”

Annunziata looked at him. “That is my hope, Master Vex. That is my hope.”

“Well,” Dexter said, “it’s a better plan than I had last night.”

 

It took them just over an hour to make it into Kuknur, which put them right into the middle of lunchtime according to the local clocks. By that point Dexter was hot, sweaty, and starving, and barely even bothered to consider what he was paying for before he’d bought some food and scoffed it down. Annunziata ate more sedately as they wandered through the small town. Dexter only knew enough Hindi to get directions, and Annunziata even less, which didn’t really matter since the locals spoke something else. Even so, it was enough to get them where they were going. Especially given the temple was a tourist site.

“I didn’t think of this,” he admitted, watching some tourists ooh and ahh over the temple’s gate.

“Neither did I,” Annunziata said, following his gaze with a crinkle in her brow. “This temple is too well-known by mortal standards to be correct, and yet it is the one named in the document.”

“Why don’t we get some more details?” Dexter suggested dryly, pointing at the information board, which turned out to be actually informative. The Mahamaya Temple, while not what they were looking for, was at least the first step. Kali’s temple was _underneath_ it, and hidden, and the subject of a great deal of reverence and fear on the part of the locals.

“Well, we know we’re in the right place,” Dexter said. “Now we just have to figure out how to get down there. I don’t suppose that old document of yours had any clues?”

Annunziata hesitated. “I’m ... not sure. The document did mention a warning from the Kalikula: that the only way back into the temple was to venerate the Mother Goddess.”

“It’s a _clue_ all right,” Dexter muttered, and wandered after a group of tourists with cameras.

For over an hour they followed that group, listening to the guide talk. It wasn’t until they reached the inner sanctum, where guide and tourists alike spoke in an affected hush, that anything changed. Dexter glanced around, feeling bored and hot and impatient, and forcing himself into enough calm to look for hidden doors and passages. The guide and group moved to the next room.

Dexter was about to follow when Annunziata said, “Master Vex.” Dexter turned and saw her standing in front of one of the idols in the room, gazing at it. She glanced up to see whether he was watching and then looked back. “I believe this is what we are looking for.”

“It’s a statue,” Dexter said.

“It’s an idol of Parvati,” said Annunviata, “who is also known as the Mother Goddess. Another aspect.” She knelt in front of the idol without once taking her gaze off it. “O Mother Goddess, Kali of the Dark Night,” she said, quiet but evenly, and with a lilting cadence to her voice. “Hear my plea and look upon me favourably, for I am but a humble pilgrim seeking the truth of the Primal Energy. Bestow your countenance upon me, and show me the way.”

There was a long pause. Then Dexter asked, “Are you sure you said the right thing?”

“I just made it up.”

“So maybe you said the wrong thing.”

“Sincerity is usually more important than words when coming from the ignorant, Master Vex.”

“I’m not so sure. Wouldn’t we have seen a door opening? Maybe there’s a secret password.”

“There isn’t,” said a voice. Dexter jumped and whirled, and Annunziata jerked, her head snapping around. There was a shadow in the corner, a woman, Dexter thought, though he couldn’t see her face or anything other than her silhouette. The figure shifted, there was a gaping hole of darkness in the wall. “Please. This way.”

Without hesitation, Annunziata rose and followed. Dexter glanced behind him, at the narrow slit of light that was the doorway leading into the crumbling old courtyards. Then, with a deep breath, he turned around and walked forward into the darkness of the goddess Kali’s underground temple.


	12. 11

_The boy never heard any of the servants talking, but somehow, all of them knew what happened in the lane. They looked at him sidelong or when he wasn’t watching, as if he was a strange new thing none of them had seen before and they weren’t quite sure what to do about it._

_Except to be afraid. He could tell that all of them were afraid._

_His father hadn’t even looked at him. The boy couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse than what he’d imagined._

_He hadn’t gone riding for a week, since that day. He hadn’t even gone to see Furlough. He especially hadn’t dared to ask anyone for anything, let alone use their names. All the time, his stomach felt like a hard rock. He hadn’t felt hungry in days. He didn’t eat much, and then only because he knew he had to. Most of the time he stayed in his room, feeling sick and scrubbing his face, even though all the blood was gone._

_He hadn’t asked what happened to the bodies. He hadn’t dared. The only thing that kept him going was the fact that his father had brought him home, instead of calling the King’s Guard himself._

_The boy was sitting at the window, watching the gardeners tend the herbs and wondering how the world was still moving when everything should have changed, when there came a knock at his door._

_“Your father requests your presence in his study.”_

_Aengus’s voice was quiet but brisk, and the boy heard his footsteps move away as soon as his message was delivered. The boy gave him time to get away. Then he stood, wondering if it would be better to put on his shoes and waistcoat and coat, or to go down just as he was. Maybe if he looked dignified, his father would be able to talk to him as an adult._

_Maybe if he looked like the frightened boy he actually was, his father would look at him again._

_In the end the boy left it all there and went downstairs in his bare feet and suspenders. Whatever was going to happen, he didn’t have enough control to pretend he actually did._

_He wished he’d put the shoes and waistcoat on when he reached the study and opened the door, and saw that his father wasn’t alone. There were six other men in the room with him, and all of them turned when he arrived._

_“Da?” he asked uncertainly. He tried not to see the way the other men drew back and made the sign of the cross, or whispered to their neighbours. All except for the man in the priest’s cassock._

_His father was looking down at his desk, but then he looked up, and for a moment the boy almost smiled. Then he saw how pale his father’s face was, and the fact his cheeks were wet. But the worst were his eyes. They weren’t disappointed, or angry. They were afraid, and something else that the boy hadn’t seen in a very long time—since his mother had died._

_“Kian—” he started to say, but his voice broke and he looked down, and one of the other men put a hand on his shoulder. His father took a breath, but he didn’t look up again. “Kian, please come in.”_

_The boy very much did not want to come in. He wanted to turn around and run back to his room, and hide under the covers in the vain wish that this was a nightmare that would go away just as soon as he’d woken up. But it hadn’t, yet, the seven times he’d slept fitfully and woken exhausted, and come downstairs to find the servants still didn’t look him in the face._

_So the boy stepped inside and let the door close behind him, and stood there unmoving. He felt very distant from his body, but he heard himself say in such a controlled tone that he was vaguely surprised, “What may I do for you, Da?”_

_He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so formal with his father. But he could, very clearly, remember the last time he’d heard that phrase used, and his father flinched. He stared down at his desk, and his tightly clasped hands, and this time it was the priest who spoke._

_“We need to know how Sean_ _Maceachthighearna died.”_

_The boy still felt distant, but now he also felt very cold. “I already told Da how Sean died.”_

_“We need to know the truth,” said one of the other men, with an edge in his voice which the boy knew was anger. He wanted to get angry back, but he couldn’t. The priest turned and, even though he didn’t say anything, the man subsided._

_The priest turned back and looked at the boy. “Was that the truth, Kian?”_

_The boy looked down at the carpet. “He fell,” he said quietly. “That was the truth.”_

_“And everything else?”_

_What should he do? He didn’t want to do this in a room full of people. He didn’t even know some of them by name; just that they attended the same church. His father would have known their names._

_But there was no point in lying, either. They’d guessed. They knew. The boy gripped his trousers with sweaty hands, and wished he was anywhere else._

_“We were arguing. He said Da was going to hang for being a traitor. I told him—” A lump rose in this throat and made it hard to speak, but he forced the words out. “I told him he should hang himself.”_

_His father made a sound like a wounded animal, but the boy didn’t dare look up. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, his gaze fixed on the carpet. It was a very nice carpet. It was a very expensive carpet. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean for him to do it. I didn’t. I promise. Da—”_

_His voice cracked and he couldn’t say anything else, but he swallowed hard to fight back the tears. Movement made him look up, and the priest kneeled in front of him so they were eye-to-eye. “And the soldiers?” he asked. “Did you mean to kill them?”_

_Of course he’d meant to kill them. They had been planning to kill him and his father. He wouldn’t have, if they hadn’t started it, but they had, so he’d had to end it. “They were going to kill Da.”_

_“But did you_ want _to kill them?” the priest persisted. The boy looked at him and through the numbness felt bewildered._

_“I—I don’t—no? If they hadn’t—I wouldn’t have. If they hadn’t first.”_

_“Then why did you tell them to kill each other?” the priest asked. The boy stared numbly._

_“What?”_

_“You wanted to save your father,” said the priest. “Why didn’t you just tell them to go away?”_

_“They would have come back,” said the boy, and felt a lurching kind of desperation. “They would have just come back, and they would have said I was a witch, and it wouldn’t have solved anything.”_

_Unless he’d ordered them not to tell anyone what had happened. Maybe that would have worked, if he’d been specific enough._

_“And now four of the King’s Guard have disappeared on Ailbe’s lands,” said the priest, “and the King’s Guard have an excuse to hunt the gypsies, but they know that it was Ailbe who killed them.”_

_The boy stared at him wordlessly, and now his mind was working furiously. The priest was right. He could have told the soldiers to go away, to not tell anyone, maybe even to forget they’d even seen them. Instead, he’d told them to kill each other._

_“Kian.”_

_The boy nodded to show he was still listening, but only a part of him was paying attention anymore. Instead he was thinking about all the ways he could have done something else, something that wouldn’t have made things worse._

_“We think you have a demon inside of you.”_

Now _the boy was listening, and properly, and back to staring too. “What?”_

_“We think you have a demon inside of you,” the priest repeated, “and it’s giving you powers, and letting you do things which seem harmless so that you do them for more important things too. But that power is evil, Kian, and the demon will use it for evil, even if you don’t mean for it to.”_

_The boy’s stomach clenched. A demon was worse than a witch, but in another way, it was better. A witch was someone who served the Devil. If he was possessed, maybe that meant he could be saved._

_“We want to perform an exorcism,” the priest continued, still looking at him straight in the eyes. “It will send the demon back to Hell, and you would be free.”_

_And he wouldn’t be able to do things anymore. The boy felt relieved and disappointed at once, and then immediately ashamed as well. He had tried hard not to use the magic, but sometimes it had been useful. He’d never meant to use it for evil. Couldn’t he still use it, and not be evil?_

_He looked at the priest, and then past him his father’s stricken face, and knew the answer was ‘no’. He couldn’t use magic and not be evil, because the magic wasn’t his. Not really. And if he tried to explain, or object, or say no, maybe they would think_ he _was the demon._

_His father would never look at him again then._

_“Do you agree, Kian?” the priest asked, and the boy swallowed hard and nodded._


	13. 12

“So do you think these guys will let us in?” Gracious whispered to Donegan, watching Skulduggery knock on the mausoleum door.

“I doubt it,” Donegan whispered back. “I think they must be sending news on ahead. We couldn’t even find the one in Italy.”

“Maybe there _isn’t_ one in Italy.”

“Maybe that’s what they want us to think.”

“Or maybe it’s because they all died out and just want us to think they’re everywhere. Like rabbits.”

“You’re comparing necromancers to rabbits?”

“Why not? Everybody hates them but they spread like weeds in spite of everyone’s efforts to kill them off.” Gracious paused. “You know where they all are? Australia.”

“Australia?”

“Sure. All that open space. Remember that time we went down to hunt bunyips?”

“Of course,” muttered Donegan. “I wound up with heatstroke.”

“That farmer in South Australia paid us to hunt rabbits for three weeks straight,” said Gracious.

“And we didn’t once find a bunyip.”

“No, but some of those rabbits weren’t bad eating. Anyway, my point is that if Australia has a rabbit population that big, stands to reason most necromancers are really Down Under.”

Donegan mulled that over. “I suppose it makes sense,” he agreed. “All that open space.”

“Exactly. Most necromancers live underground anyway, so what’s it matter if most of it’s desert?”

“Are you two planning to finish any time soon?” Skulduggery asked without looking away from the mausoleum door.

“Just as soon as they answer,” Donegan told him. Skulduggery turned his head slightly to the side.

“They can hear you, you know. I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t let us in at all.”

Gracious shrugged. “Yeah, but we’re speaking English. This is Prague.”

“Czechoslovakians speak English too.”

“They do? Since when?”

Skulduggery sighed and knocked on the door again. This time they heard someone speak, muffled behind the door. It sounded a lot like ‘go away’, but Gracious decided to be gracious and assume he was mishearing, and pounded more heavily on the door. “Come on,” he called. “We’ve been out here for two hours. We just want to help. Really.”

There was a click, and this time the voice came a lot clearer. “Yes, that is what they said when that idiot made the golem. We do not need the help of the Irish, thank you.”

There was another click, and Gracious turned to Donegan. “I didn’t know the Czech necromancers were so sarcastic. Did you know the Czech necromancers were so sarcastic?”

“To be fair, their High Priest _was_ , in all probability, just murdered,” Donegan pointed out.

“True. Do you think it would make a difference if we said we were sent here by that Irish cleric?”

“Technically, we were only sent to Italy by the Irish cleric.”

“And then he rang Skulduggery and told us the armour had been seen here,” said Gracious. “You’d almost think he wanted us to help. Or at least wanted us to get on someone else’s nerves.”

“I don’t know. He didn’t look like he had many nerves to get on.”

“Please let me in,” Skulduggery said directly to the door. “I _am_ a detective. I have a badge and a gun. And a hat. It’s even a detective’s hat. I can help. I’m not so sure about them, but _I_ can. I would introduce myself, but I think an introduction is most likely superfluous.”

“Are you getting the feeling he wants to get away from us?” Gracious asked Donegan.

“I don’t see why,” said Donegan. “We’re very useful fellows to have around. We can open all kinds of doors. We can even open doors without necessarily causing an international incident.”

Click. “And how do you plan to do this?”

“Well, in the first place, I’m not Irish, I’m English, and you didn’t say you couldn’t use _our_ help,” Donegan pointed out.

Click. “There is a difference?”

“Well, now I’m just insulted,” said Gracious.

“So am I,” agreed Donegan. “I’m nothing like you. You’re Irish. You’re a barbarian. You’d eat potatoes all day, every day if you could.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a good hearty potato,” countered Gracious. “And at least we didn’t cause a war over it. Unlike you Englishmen.”

“We never caused a war over potatoes.”

“You caused a war over tea. Really, Bane. Tea? Why tea? It’s only weeds dipped in water for a few minutes, with some cow-juice and a sugar-cube you probably stole from your horse. What’s so great about that, that you had to go to war when you didn’t get it?”

“First of all,” said Donegan, “not all teas have _milk_ in them. In fact, the majority don’t. Only black teas have milk in them, and not even all of _them_. Herbal teas and green teas don’t. They don’t have sugar, either, unless you’re a Neanderthal. _Secondly_ —”

The door opened. Skulduggery stepped quickly inside, and in a jostling of arms and elbows Gracious and Donegan followed.

“See?” Donegan said to the scowling door-man at the handle. “I told you I could open doors without international incidents.”

The door-man muttered something Gracious liked to believe was complimentary, and closed the door. Gracious looked around. “It’s not very well-lit. Why do you people like darkness so much? Don’t you know that you need light to cast shadows? You can’t have shadows in darkness.”

“This is a mausoleum,” the door-man grumbled. “Mortals would notice if their mausoleums had running water and electricity.” He pointed across the room. “Entrance is there. Go through.”

“You don’t have any golems down there, do you?” Gracious asked. The doorman glared, so Gracious followed Skulduggery and Donegan, sidling around the coffin in the room’s centre. “Who’s in there?”

“The last man who tried to enter without permission,” said the Czech necromancer, and flashed a sudden, wicked grin. “We sealed him in with rats.”

“Oh, that’s nice to know.” Gracious shuddered and stepped closer to Donegan. They went through the wall—which opened up very accommodatingly for them—and entered the well-lit corridor of the Czech Temple. It was in a similar state to the Irish Temple, with the clerics rushing around like chickens with their heads chopped off, except there was a major difference.

“They don’t look very sad,” Gracious muttered.

“They just look really angry,” Donegan agreed. “Maybe we should try not to make them angry at _us_.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“Neither of you were involved in the fighting during Vile’s time, were you?” Skulduggery asked, turning his head to look at them over his shoulder while setting off down the short corridor and into the first room. There was, behind it, another room, and another, like a series of Lego blocks put together and with doors installed between.

“That depends on what you mean by fighting,” Gracious said. “I’m pretty sure those five years were my best run of brawls.”

“You mean you started winning?”

“No, I mean I started being able to walk out after someone handed me my arse. What about you?”

“I was still on the farm,” said Donegan, “wooing the farmer’s daughter and practicing blowing up cows.”

“Which one did he run you off the farm for?”

Donegan shrugged. “Could have been when I took his daughter out on a date to blow up some cows. Then I ran into some Frogs and they enlisted me into their unit because they needed someone to open some doors for them.”

“I hear you weren’t too good at avoiding international incidents back then,” said Gracious.

“It was in my own country; it doesn’t count. But I don’t think the English sorcerers were terribly happy I was running around with the French, once they found us. That’s why I ran away to Ireland.”

“And that’s when I met him,” said Gracious to Skulduggery, “trying to explain to a barmaid how to blow up cows.”

“It’s not my fault she didn’t understand the finer nuances of energy-throwing,” Donegan muttered.

“You told her you shot dazzling light from your hands.”

“It’s straight-forward. There isn’t much to mistake about that.”

“She thought you were trying to woo her. She laughed in your face.”

“She wasn’t a very intelligent young woman.”

“She thought you were a bad poet.”

“I’m a very good poet,” said Donegan. “Not that I poetise very often, but when I do, I’m very good.”

“We’re here,” said Skulduggery, which was rather unnecessary, because there were more necromancers in this area of the Temple and they were nearly all shouting. At the sound of his voice the ones nearest turned sharply, saw him, and started waving at the others to shut up. They even parted to let them into the room, which Gracious thought was very nice of them, given the conduct of their door-man. The shouting died down.

“Hello,” Gracious said to the nearest, but he glared and folded his arms, and said nothing.

“Why do I suddenly feel as if I’ve walked into a snake-pit?” Donegan wondered.

“Possibly because we’ve just walked into a snake-pit,” said Skulduggery, and then spoke to the man standing impatiently in the centre of the room. “You’re the one in charge, I assume?”

“What have you done?” demanded the man-who-was-in-charge.

“I just walked through the door,” Skulduggery said, but the man waved a hand.

“You. The Irish. All of you. Vile was supposed to have been dead!”

“Technically, no one actually knows whether Vile is dead,” Donegan pointed out, “or was dead in the past, or will be dead in the future.”

“And wasn’t all the fighting being done in Eurasia at the time?” Gracious wondered out loud. “It can’t be our fault if he didn’t die. We weren’t even in our own country then.”

“He was found in an Irish Temple, is that not so?” said the man. “He aligned himself with an Irish sorcerer, did he not? All of Mevolent’s generals were Irish.”

“Theoretically,” Gracious protested. “No one ever knew who Vile was. Besides someone who was apparently in need of a full-body chastity belt.”

Donegan turned to stare at him. “Is _that_ what you think suits of armour are for?”

“They’re a bugger to put on, they’re heavy and they chafe when you wear them, and whenever you want to take them off you can’t find the key. What else can they be?”

Skulduggery tilted his head, but didn’t look away from the necromancer-who-was-now-in-charge. He almost seemed to be having trouble actually saying anything. Or maybe he’d decided to let Gracious and Donegan handle things. Gracious would have preferred if he’d said something, because when he didn’t there was a tense silence, and Gracious was not known for handling tense silences well.

“What do you have against Vile, anyway?” he asked. “I mean, besides the fact that he was a psychopathic killing machine who hated people seeing his face. Everyone has something against Vile for being that. But I thought all necromancers loved him.”

The Czech necromancer glared. Then he turned and pointed at the far wall, and the other necromancers parted. “Look.”

Gracious looked. On the wall was a long, scrolling list of names. The ceiling was high, the walls were broad, and the names vanished into the shadows on either side. They were divided into century-long sections, but the necromancer was pointing to the eighteenth century. Most of the names on either side were just etched and stained black so they could be seen, but the majority of the names under the eighteenth-century section were cast silver in the light.

“We are a small Temple now,” said the necromancer, “but not always. Before, we housed worshippers from all over the Slavic nations. We were the largest Temple in central Europe. Most Temples, when they heard Vile was near, hid and hoped he would bring about our goals—or forget they existed. We did not. We fought him. He was a necromancer, but he was a monster.”

He dropped his arm and turned, the lines of his face harsh with anger and grief. “One day, he came to our Temple and massacred four-fifths of our worshippers. We have never recovered.”

The silence was very heavy, and all Gracious could think to say was, “Oh.”

“You say that Vile is not alive?” the necromancer asked, but more wearily now. There was still an edge of anger there, but the exhaustion was taking over. “Who, then, killed our High Priest?”

“Vile’s armour,” Skulduggery said evenly. “I wouldn’t say it’s alive, but after Baron Vengeous revived it, apparently it has become magically self-sustaining. It’s kidnapped a necromancer from the Irish Temple and is most likely using him, in some fashion, to help animate it.”

A mutter went around the room. Gracious couldn’t tell whether it was belligerent or not. But the necromancer-whose-name-they-still-hadn’t-gotten straightened, and his gaze sharpened. “And this necromancer? How do you know _he_ is not Vile?”

“See,” Gracious said to Donegan. “I’m not the only one who thinks Wreath could be Vile.”

“Because he fought Vile,” said Skulduggery, “in the Irish Temple, when Vile was there. There are witnesses who have seen them together. He’s a victim. The armour is using him.”

Another mutter. The necromancer regarded them. “When you find them,” he said, “do you intend to do away with the problem in the quickest and most efficient manner, or rescue the hostage?”

Skulduggery looked at him with his eyeless gaze. “Solomon Wreath was a friend of mine,” he said, “from a very long time ago. I _will_ save him.”

He sounded very firm and matter-of-fact. Not as if he was trying to make himself believe it, but as if it was something he would make happen, no matter what. Gracious didn’t like that sort of tone. It was the tone of a man who had nothing else to lose. Those tended to be very bad situations. He glanced at Donegan, and from Donegan’s frown, he could tell the Englishman had heard it too.

But the necromancer only nodded. “Then I will show you where our High Priest was murdered,” he said, “and you will make right what Ireland should have done a long time ago.”


	14. 13

There were no windows underground, which made it very difficult to tell how much time had passed since Dexter and Annunziata arrived. It was a good thing Dexter had a sense of passing time, but what really helped was that the Kalikula had some kind of bell system. It didn’t go from midnight to midnight, but dawn to dusk, so he had to subtract some numbers from his mental tally of the hours.

He wasn’t sure how it made a difference when they couldn’t even see the sun, but maybe they had another exit. If they did, Dexter didn’t see it. Dexter didn’t see much of anything other than stone walls and the admittedly very nicely appointed, but windowless, room he and Annunziata were given. (Both of them had refused to be separated. Their guide had only shrugged.)

There was only one bed, but there was a settee, so Dexter gave the bed to Annunziata. There was a filled bookcase (most of the books were written in Hindi), a small bureau with a mirror, and even a wardrobe for their comfort. Annunziata calmly went about packing her things into the furniture. Dexter left all his in the bag, and whiled the hours away pacing or leafing through the books until he found the Kama Sutra, at which point he put it at the very back of the shelf. It wasn’t that he hadn’t already read it, or that he was unaware it covered a lot more than just sex; it was just that he didn’t want to give Annunziata the wrong impression.

Finally he sat down on the settee, took a deep breath, and lay back to try and make some plans. Somewhere along the line, he fell asleep. When he woke up he was being shaken, and he had no idea what time it might have been. He blinked drowsily up at Annunziata.

“We’re being summoned,” she said simply, and Dexter shook off the sleep, snapping perfectly awake with the slightly rusty, but still good reflexes of a man used waking up in a hurry.

“Someone important?” he asked, stifling a yawn and reaching down to pull on his boots. Annunziata stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

“They said not to bother with footwear,” she said, and Dexter frowned. The first reason he could think of to keep them barefoot was to keep them from running away. Then again, they’d walked in willingly, and if they could break _out_ without shoes, it was probably a feat on its own.

Even so, he pulled on his boots and then stood. Annunziata remained barefoot. When Dexter turned around the door was open and their guide was waiting, but she made no comment on Dexter’s boots. There was another guide waiting in the hallway. Their first, unnamed guide hadn’t needed a bodyguard to bring them into the Temple, so chances were they were about to be split up.

“Wherever we go, we go together,” Dexter said before that could happen.

“Then you will have to be together and remain here,” said his guide tranquilly. “What you seek cannot be found in company.”

“How is it you know what we seek?” Annunziata asked, not quite tranquil but a lot more calmly than Dexter was feeling.

The guide looked at her and smiled, and held a hand out to indicate one direction of the corridor. “This way please, Dexter Vex.”

Dexter glanced at Annunziata. Her brow was furrowed in that way he was beginning to recognise as consideration, but then she met his gaze and nodded. Dexter didn’t like it, but he nodded back and turned to follow his guide down the hall. His footsteps sounded loud, but he couldn’t hear any movement from his guide at all, and when he glanced down he saw she was barefoot.

Maybe he _should_ have left his shoes behind. Oh well.

Occasionally they passed someone else, and whenever they did they stood aside to let them pass. The traffic eased off as they walked, so they’d obviously been put in some kind of wing for living quarters. The priestess, or nun, or whatever she was, didn’t to confuse him with the halls; Dexter kept track of them subconsciously, just like he had during the war. Wherever they were going was a long way away from their room, and it was hard to navigate, but only in the same way an unfamiliar city was hard to navigate for someone who hadn’t been there before.

“Where are we going?” he asked after a while.

“The High Priestess has requested your presence,” answered his guide without looking around.

High Priestess. Okay. That was good. That meant he was already going right to the top. With any luck at all, he could make his request—the wording of which he hadn’t quite figured out yet—and he and Annunziata could be gone by morning.

Somehow he didn’t think it was going to be quite so simple.

They came to a set of double-doors, not much bigger than the single ones they’d passed, but far more ornate in design. His guide stopped beside them and bowed, and remained like that until Dexter stepped forward to push open one door and step in. The room behind it was big. Not quite ‘grand ballroom’ big, but definitely similar in size to Corrival’s ‘standard ballroom’. Big enough that, although there were torches lit around the walls of the room, darkness had collected in the middle.

“Hello?” he called, moving across the floor and keeping some attention behind him for anything that might decide to jump out. The walls were inlaid, he noticed. Patterns, from a distance, but when he got closer he saw pictures. Some of them were gruesome. The one where someone was getting sacrificed on an altar didn’t fill him with confidence.

Against the far wall (of course it was the _far_ wall) there was a shadow. It wasn’t until he was in the middle of the room that he saw it was a dais. And it wasn’t until he was only about ten feet away that he could see the woman sitting cross-legged in the middle of it. Her skin was dyed black, and her hands were resting on her knees, and the backrest on the dais radiated with cast limbs that made her look like she had eight.

He also thought she was a statue until she opened her eyes and spoke in perfect English. “Welcome from the Kalikula, Dexter Vex.”

Dexter yelped and jumped back. She grinned at him, her teeth very white against her tattooed skin, and then unfolded herself from the yoga form to stand. It was hard to see her properly, with the way she blended in with the darkness, but she was stunningly beautiful and absolutely naked save the gold jewellery around her neck, wrists and ankles. Her hair, unbound, almost touched the ground and its sway as she walked drew the eye, until she was standing in front of Dexter almost before he’d realised she had stepped off the dais.

“I’m pretty sure that’s cheating,” he said. She laughed and held out her hands, and when he automatically lifted his she dropped a series of gold rings and chains into them.

“Do you know how to plait hair?” she asked, turning around and bending to pick up a wrap-around skirt and a golden belt. They liked gold, apparently.

It probably said a lot about Dexter’s affiliation with Larrikin that this question made him relax. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said, looping the chains over his arm and the rings on his wrist, and reaching up to deftly separate her hair. “It’s amazing how little time you get to go to the barber’s when you’re in the middle of a war.”

Not that any of them ever really bothered to plait their hair when they couldn’t, except when Larrikin needed to wear a wig. But that, frankly, happened a lot. Larrikin had just never had _this_ much hair, and after a moment Dexter realised why one of the rings was so big. He shook out what he had gathered, then took it all from the nape of her neck and snapped the ring around her hair.

“So,” he started as he separated her hair out, “you wouldn’t happen to have a name, would you?”

“I have many,” said the High Priestess, “but if you have need of one, you may call me Sati.”

“Well, it’s politer than ‘hey you’,” Dexter said. “You wouldn’t happen to already know why we’re here, would you?”

“No,” Sati admitted, affixing the belt around her waist. “But you brought a necromancer. That means you’re desperate, ignorant or arrogant, or possibly all of the above. I was intrigued.”

“People tend to have that reaction when they meet me,” Dexter said with a shrug, taking a step back and eyeing the plait critically. He’d kept it tight so far, but much longer and it was going to loosen no matter what. He glanced down at his arm, and then up at the ring gathering the hair at her nape. Oh. So that’s what the chains were for.

He combed out her hair, fixed the chains to the loops on the bottom of the ring, and this time plaited them in.

“So I’ve heard,” said Sati, and he was sure she was smiling.

“You’ve heard a lot, for someone who lives underground.”

Her slender shoulders rose and fell, and the motion was very obvious given her hair was pulled back and she apparently wasn’t going to bother with any kind of tunic for her chest. Not that he was going to complain, precisely, but it _was_ something of a distraction. The fact those shoulders were tattooed pitch-black was at once frightening and alluring.

“Living underground and being ignorant don’t mean the same thing,” she said. “The Kalikula didn’t fight in the war, but we remember when it spread into India. And I remember the stories.”

Dexter reached the same point in the plait as he had before. He shook a ring off his wrist and snapped it on, and attached it to the links in the chains. “I’m flattered our reputation got this far. So you’ve heard of me, but you haven’t kept track of current events.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because if you had, you’d know why we were here.”

She laughed again. “True. Why are you here?”

“We need to know how to bind necromancy,” he said, and Sati almost jerked around. She stilled just before she would have yanked her hair out of his hands, which would have been a pity, because he was nearly finished plaiting it.

“Lord Vile,” she said.

“Sort-of,” he admitted. There were two rings hooked to the chains, and only one left. “His armour. Baron Vengeous used it and a necromancer forged a blood-bond with it to override his control. Now it’s gone and kidnapped the necromancer, and we think it’s using him to expand its awareness.”

Sati said nothing as he finished and fixed the last ring around her hair. Then she turned around, took his hands and led him toward the dais, and sat. He sat opposite her, keeping his gaze on her face.

“Tell me more,” she said. So he did. Nothing about Skulduggery being Vile, but the part about Wreath, and Wreath’s blood-bond, and the way the armour had reacted. The murders. What Saracen had said about the armour being alive, but not how he knew it. And, finally, what Annunziata had said about the origin of the necromantic order.

Sati listened while gazing out across the room, and he took advantage of the opportunity to examine her properly. She looked young, but he assumed she was a sorcerer and then realised that that didn’t necessarily follow. She had referenced the war, but hadn’t said whether she remembered it personally, and if the Kalikula considered necromancy to be an impingement on Kali’s realm then maybe they thought the same of all magic. Maybe Sati was, in fact, a mortal.

It was an odd thought and he found himself studying her more closely, as if he’d be able to tell just by watching. Abruptly she turned and met his gaze, and grinned again, but less broadly this time. Then she took his hands and rose, and tugged him to his feet. “Dance with me.”

Dexter blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dance is important to the goddess,” she said. “In joy, in victory, in reverence—these are all reasons to dance for Kali. The best dances are done with an audience—or a partner.”

“You’re not talking about ballroom dancing, are you?” Dexter asked bemusedly.

She laughed, shaking her head and pointing at his boots. “You might find it difficult wearing those.”

“I’ll take my chances.” She shrugged and pulled him further into the room. He resisted. “If I dance with you, will you tell me how to bind the armour?”

Sati shot him a look that seemed to be a combination of amusement and exasperation, and for a moment Dexter saw that kind of age in her eyes which suggested she was older than she looked. Then again, even mortals could get that look, given experience.

“If you dance, how do you know you won’t figure out how to defeat the armour?” she asked.

Dexter sighed. Sati had been straightforward up until now. He’d been entertaining hopes that it really would be as easy as asking, but no. Naturally, she was going to have to stick to the spiritual mumbo-jumbo all religions delighted in. Still, he had a few days to spare to humour her.

“Alright,” he agreed. “What do I do?”


	15. 14

The Temple was starting to panic. With Tenebrae’s murder it hadn’t been readily apparent to the acolytes and children, but that had been two days ago. In one day, five of them were gone. The High Priest of Ireland. The High Priest of Italy. The High Priest of what most necromancers still called the Ottoman Empire, in spite of it being located in the very definable nation of Czechoslovakia. The High Priest of Austria. The High Priest of Hungary. And that was only the _first_ night.

It made Athanasius very glad that he was no longer High Priest. It was very rare that someone else should take on the position while the previous High Priest was still alive, but in Greece’s case Athanasius had had enough of the politics and manoeuvring shortly after the war with Mevolent was over. After the necromancers retreated to their Temples, the primary debates had been the usual ‘where to find a Death Bringer’ and the not-so-usual argument over rejoining the fight.

Athanasius had been in the minority. The failed minority. Even after Lord Vile, most of the Temples chose not to fight. _Especially_ after Lord Vile—no one wanted what happened in Czechoslovakia to happen to them, no matter how apparent it became that Lord Vile was dead.

The irony being, of course, that Vile wasn’t.

The irony being that, after all this time, Vile hadn’t bothered with Sanctuaries or powers. The necromancer had come straight after the Temples.

Athanasius was glad he was no longer High Priest, but that didn’t mean he was resting on his laurels. The Temple in Italy thought it had the most comprehensive library of necromantic works, but Athanasius would—and actually had, once—bet Ambi Paenumbra that Athen’s Temple could rival it.

(She had refused, claiming the futility of gambling. He had pointed out that one might assume she was afraid to be proven wrong. She hadn’t spoken to him in two years. Athanasius was fairly sure it had been to prove a point, rather than any true anger, but the fact remained that she hadn’t spoken to him in two years. If he’d been a lesser man he would have felt slighted.)

The Athenian Temple was underneath the Acropolis. It hadn’t always been, but anti-pagan discrimination and war had made it necessary for the Temple to relocate somewhere no one would consider. It worked well, particularly in modern years. Nowadays when necromancers wanted to leave the Temple, all they had to do was join the crowd of tourists visiting the Acropolis. Unfortunately, that did necessitate a distinct lack of light, and, equally unfortunately, making windows would had drawn attention.

Athanasius replaced a book that hadn’t been nearly as helpful as he’d thought it would and moved further down the aisle, holding his lantern high on his staff. It was ‘old school’, as he’d heard the acolytes say, but it sufficed. No one anticipated an old man’s staff to be an object of power. They were usually too big to be used as channelling objects. Unless, of course, it was made of wood, and only the ends were metal-shod, and connected with delicate filigree.

Few others had an object like this. No one in this day and age would have any idea how to make one. It was over a thousand years old. Athanasius, once a blacksmith himself, had found it in the repository for items awaiting scrap and restored it from what little he had been able to glean over the years from the records of ancient smiths.

It was also the reason Athanasius had dismissed Tenebrae’s claims that Lord Vile could possibly be a Death Bringer. No one, _no one_ , could get so much palladium or platinum as to forge a suit of _armour_ out of it. Not and wield necromancy to the degree Tenebrae had claimed. Athanasius hadn’t believed anyone could be so powerful until it was already too late.

Athanasius regretted that. He, of all people, should know that not all items were as they seemed. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

That didn’t change the fact there was something exceedingly strange about that armour. From all accounts, Vile had wandered into the Irish Temple already wearing it. It was possible that the blacksmiths there had managed to forge something to add to the armour to make it an object—it was something of a frequent practice, actually, especially in Temples with a shortage of materials—but that wouldn’t explain Vile’s utilisation of it.

The thing could have channelled shadows from its little _toe_ if Vile had wanted to, for Christ’s sake. That sort of control indicated the whole of the armour was inlaid with palladium and platinum, and that simply wasn’t possible. The Irish Temple, even if they’d had that much metal readily available, would have had to forge it from scratch. It would have taken months. Vile’s identity would have leaked out. Yet no one ever saw his face.

Or her face. Athanasius had never heard Vile speak, but with the distortion of a helmet, it was possible the user was a woman. Possibly that was why she chose an item which hid her physique.

Either way it meant that Vile had brought the armour into the Temple herself, already fully-forged and capable of channelling. And the manner of channelling! Athanasius was sure he had seen reference to a necromantic suit of armour before, and he was also sure that not even that had been described as capable of the feats Vile’s armour was.

It made sense, in one respect. An object which covered the body would, theoretically, make it possible for the user to send shadows out from any part of them. But that kind of power was simply ... Athanasius wanted to say absurd, and then he reminded himself that it was exactly the sort of power a Death Bringer _should_ have.

A Death Bringer shouldn’t be so willing to slaughter their own. No matter what the younger necromancers said about taking any option.

His footsteps sounded muffled in the aisles. He turned the lantern this way and that, systematically searching both the higher shelves and his memory. These were the older parts of the library, the parts with the oldest books. Athanasius remembered a blacksmith’s journal back here, one he used to reference for some of his inventions back when he’d been a Temple smith.

He remembered it had a distinctive spine: metal-shod. He suspected it had been an object itself. He’d never dared to test that theory, in case one of the clerics insisted it be dismantled for the sake of resources. Then he’d become a cleric himself and said nothing. It had become like an old friend.

Ah. There it was.

Athanasius nudged the footstool closer and stood on it to bring the book down, safely cradled against his chest. Then he turned and made his way back up the aisle, to the better-lit tables where some of the students were pretending to review for their studies and were, instead, whispering at tables. He gave the nearest a stern look, which made them cower into their books, and sat in the corner. With his back against the wall and staff leaning close by his hand, he opened the book.

The author hailed from Mycenaean-era Greece. The only reason Athanasius knew that was because of the pattern of scrawled dates on the pages. He couldn’t tell exactly where in that era, except that it was certainly before the trade decline because the smith had had no shortage of resources.

It was early enough, Athanasius suspected, that necromancers were still studying exactly how channelling objects worked and how best to utilise them.

Channelling objects were ancient—that much was true. Ancient, but rare, and mostly used by mortals, ironically enough. Mortals believed they bestowed special powers, never realising that the origins of the magic came from the user. Most sorcerers then had no need for channelling objects, unless they were so magically weak they needed the focus. Something Ambi had once said made Athanasius wonder if necromancers hadn’t needed them either, but he had only dared to ask that once. That once was the only time he had been genuinely concerned she would cease contact for good. It would have made things difficult between their Temples, to say the least, if their High Priests weren’t talking.

Not that they spent much time talking, on the occasions they did meet.

Athanasius pulled the lantern closer and squinted down at the page. He’d forgotten how difficult this book was to read. It was three thousand years old and Athanasius had learned Ancient Greek for the sake of becoming a better smith, but he always forgot when it came time to read it again.

Fortunately, there were pictures. The smith made detailed sketches of each of his works. Athanasius spent only as long trying to read as it took for his mind to remember the trick of deciphering the bits and pieces of the language that he could, and thereafter paged through the book, letting words and letters jump out at him. But mostly, he looked for the pictures.

He started from the beginning. The armour he’d seen was early on, he remembered that; most of the items the smith forged early on had been failed experiments. By the time Athanasius had found the book there hadn’t been nearly the materials available to experiment with something so ambitious—not even to make it work.

Images and bold, barely-discernible writing flew by. Images of the wild and ridiculous, not all necromantic in nature. A magic-powered flying-ship. A magic-powered lighting system. (Athanasius smiled ruefully.) A magic-powered ... he wasn’t actually sure what.

A suit of armour. Athanasius studied the page. It looked nothing like Vile’s armour. They were both plate-armour, but that was the only similarity. Vile’s armour had been all-encompassing. There were some large pieces, true, such as the breastplate; but the rest interlocked with a series of fine, intricate items which allowed it to tailor to the wearer. The smith’s armour had rounded parts as did other Greek armours from that era, but most of those parts were large, and included a high collar no eighteenth-century armour would have had. Probably the rest was meant to be supported with chain or leather.

But on the page’s notes Athanasius could see how the smith had forged it with palladium and platinum. And it was good. It was very good, in theory. In fact, he couldn’t see anywhere why it shouldn’t have worked as a legitimate item, except that at the end of the page the smith’s clear writing scrawled with evident frustration.

It took Athanasius a while to figure out what those words said. In the end, he managed to glean something about a failure in control. Athanasius frowned. A ‘failure in control’ could mean anything, but usually it meant that the item had not been properly forged. An object which reacted badly to the magic put into it usually had explosive results. It was dangerous and damaging, and yet there was something here that seemed to indicate something further than that.

Athanasius closed his eyes and covered his face and leaned back.

A smith of this skill wouldn’t make a mistake in the forging. Therefore, the fault had to lie elsewhere. How had all his other inventions fared? How had they all failed?

Athanasius went back a page, keeping his place on the armour with a ribbon. The previous entry was something simple—just a sword. An odd leap, from sword to armour, but even still. This object had failed too, which was interesting, as swords had been common necromantic items only a few centuries ago. But it had failed too.

‘No control’, the notes said. This time, Athanasius was able to figure out a little more. No control, yes, but not because the object wouldn’t channel. The object accepted the magic; it just wouldn’t focus it.

Athanasius felt a cold tickle at his nape, the sort he felt when he knew something that refused to come to his conscious mind. He turned the pages to the entry after the armour. There were some pages of almost indecipherable notes, but the next image turned out to be another suit.

It looked, actually, familiar. It was similar to the original armour, in most ways, and Athanasius knew he wasn’t mistaking it for Vile’s—and yet. He felt as if he’d seen it somewhere else before. Unlike the first, it had a helm that covered the face. Its lower jaw was a gaping hole.

Athanasius looked at the notes. They were scrawling, but the ink was lighter, as if the author was excited rather than frustrated. He had tried something new, and it was working, and after some persistence Athanasius managed to decipher that the smith had added blood to the forging.

His eyebrows shot up and he almost sat upright, but didn’t, to avoid drawing attention from the easily-distracted students. He had just discovered the exact point in time when necromancers discovered adding a blood-bond to their items gave them an extra degree of control. Had he? That was certainly what it looked like. And not just any item—a suit of _armour_.

A suit of armour like Vile’s.

He turned the page. The notes went halfway down, and then abruptly stopped. The smith’s last words on that subject were underlined.

The armour had failed as an item, in spite of the blood-bond. Why? Athanasius read the page and the chill became more pronounced. More like a prickle, with the corresponding hardness in his gut. It was only when he’d finished the page and allowed himself the luxury of withdrawing his attention from the book itself that he realised the room was silent. The students had stopped whispering.

Athanasius looked up. Standing before him was a suit of armour, its shadows shifting across the planes of its metal like a living thing. It could have been a statue until he saw it, and finally its head moved as if to acknowledge his acknowledgement. “We want you to die.”

It was an odd thing to say, and the manner in which it was said was even odder. As if the armour had developed a script and wasn’t going to wait for the lead-up. It didn’t speak in Greek, but in English.

“Who are you?” Athanasius asked in the same language, and his voice was calm. Inside, his heart was pounding. He wondered if this was what Ambi had felt, just before she was murdered.

The armour tilted its head. Athanasius had gone off script.

“Who am I?” it repeated, but not hollowly enough to be empty. It sounded considering. That fact made the chills break into a flush of adrenaline. Athanasius gripped his staff and sat very still, but with his spare hand he found the pen he usually kept in his pocket. Without looking down, trying not to draw attention to what he was doing, he found the page in the book. As long as he could distract the armour, he would live. Maybe it would be long enough.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “Who are you?”

The armour didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “Solomon Wreath.”

Solomon Wreath. The name was familiar. Athanasius had heard it before, but a long time ago. Vile had originated in Ireland, which meant that Wreath was Irish. The latest rumour mill had said, initially, that the Baron was taking revenge on the Irish Temple for sending aid against him, which wasn’t at all like the Baron and the main reason people had, in lieu of that, assumed Vile directly.

But that sparked the memory. Wreath was the name of the only man rumoured to have been able to survive Vile in a one-on-one fight, albeit before Vile had left the Temple. If he was who Tenebrae had sent against the Baron, there was opportunity for him to take the armour for himself.

Except for the book, the book under Athanasius’s hand and pen, and the entry that told of an experimental suit of armour which had come to life.

“You aren’t Solomon Wreath,” he said.

The armour’s visor scrolled back. There was a face under there, a pale face belonging to a man with dark hair. The helmet framed his head and shadows pierced his skin at his temples. His eyes were black, and that rasping, monotone voice issued from his open mouth.

“I am Solomon Wreath.”

Athanasius swallowed.. He was over six hundred years old. He had seen a great many things. He had seen necromantic experiments that didn’t work out. He had never seen anything like this. Was Wreath still alive?

“You aren’t Solomon Wreath,” he said again, and this time his voice came out slightly shaky. “You are using Solomon Wreath, but you are not Solomon Wreath. Who are you?”

Vile? Whoever Vile had been beforehand? The Baron? Or someone entirely new? The armour didn’t seem to know. Maybe it didn’t, yet, because it didn’t answer. It just stood there, looking at him. Athanasius looked back, and kept writing.

“I am—I am—” It sounded like a record which had caught on the needle. The shadows of the helmet drifted in the air, directionless. Then abruptly, they snapped back into focus. “I am myself,” the armour said, forcing its own voice through Wreath’s throat.

The shadows lunged. Athanasius thrust his staff forward. He died with thin spears of shadows through his head and chest before he saw whether his magic hit.


	16. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of chapter yesterday; my laptop decided to throw a hissy. Have two chapters today to make up for it.

_“Absolutely not,” admonished Iona, turning so her back was to the boy and she blocked his sight of the apple pie she sprinkled with cinnamon. He moved around the table with dignity, rather than try to peer around her like a child. Iona was a senior cook, and the sweetest—with grey in her hair, but still young. One of the boy’s peers used to call her an old maid, because she had chosen not to marry._

_“Why not?” asked the boy as pragmatically as he could from across from her, keeping his gaze on her face instead of on the pie. One did not act like a hungry wolf in one’s own house. Even when the pie’s steam was making one’s stomach growl. This one was too hot to eat, but there was another on the windowsill. “Supper is still hours away, and I am so very hungry.”_

_“Then you should have eaten more at dinner.”_

_“I ate all the dinner you gave me,” the boy pointed out. “How could it possibly be my fault that I was still hungry after?”_

_Iona looked at him and laughed. “You like to think you’re different from all the other lads your age, Master Kian, but when it comes to the important things, you’re just the same: a walking stomach.”_

_The boy grinned. “Go on, Iona, give me a slice of pie.”_

_He realised too late, when his tongue tingled, that he’d let down his guard. Iona’s eyes widened with surprise as she turned to pick up the knife, but before she could reach a pie the boy seized her wrist._

_“I didn’t mean it,” he said, but he could feel the tension in her arm that meant she was still trying to obey. “It’s all right, Iona, you don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to, or aren’t meant to.”_

_His tongue tingled again, and while the resistance went out of Iona’s arm, the tension didn’t. He let her go and she very quietly put down the knife._

_“Please don’t tell Da,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it. I promise, I didn’t.”_

_She looked at him, and she looked shaken and afraid, but she rallied with a smile. “I know, Master Kian. I won’t.”_

_He tried to smile back but knew it didn’t come out right, and when Iona turned to finish her pies the boy turned and left the kitchen, still feeling shaken himself. He was thirteen years old and he’d known about the demon for three years, and it still wasn’t leaving him alone._

_It never made itself known in big ways. Nothing like what had happened to Sean, a lifetime ago, and certainly nothing like what had happened to the King’s Guard. After the exorcism, the boy and his father had truly believed it was gone for good._

_Then little things started to happen. Small favours, unexpectedly returned. Little requests of the staff, not precisely unwanted but fulfilled with more expediency than was warranted. The boy tried to tell himself it was all a coincidence, but he’d known the truth, and so had the servants. They’d started relaxing around him again, and then they were put on their guard, and in the end he had simply stopped using their names and used their titles instead._

_But sometimes, when he wasn’t paying attention, a name slipped out instead._

_They had stopped blaming him for it. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. They all knew he was possessed, but they tried to protect him anyway. Even though they couldn’t. Even though they shouldn’t. Even though he couldn’t stop himself from making mistakes, no matter how hard he tried._

_The boy had meant to go upstairs to his room, half intending to pray on his rosary even though he didn’t see the point in using something which obviously wasn’t working. Then there came the clattering of many hoof-beats in the courtyard, and he turned. He heard a commanding voice, and then the voice of one of the groundsmen in some sort of refusal._

_Something cold settled in the boy’s stomach. He took a step back down the stairs as Aengus came in through the door, his face grim. He caught the boy’s eye and then slid away from it, and reached for the bell by the entrance. It clanged through the house like a dooming knell, and prickles of dread rushed across the boy’s skin._

_When his father came out from the antechamber, the boy was already at the foot of the stairs. The very first thing he noticed was that his father was wearing a sword._

_“Da—”_

_His father looked up and saw him, and stepped to the side to let some of their own guard out the door, directed by Aengus. Then he came closer. His expression was grim._

_“You’re meant to be in the kitchen,” he said._

_“I didn’t realise,” said the boy. The kitchen had a secret underground exit leading out to the banks of the stream. He wondered if Iona had known they were expecting the King’s Guard, and then remembered the filled haversacks lying by the sacks of flour. He’d wondered about them, but been too hungry to ask. She had known. She had made the pies out of hope._

_The boy looked into his father’s haggard face, and saw the ribbons of grey in his hair, and knew this was it. “Let me come out with you,” he blurted._

_“No,” his father said. “Kian, if they capture you, they will execute you. Go into the kitchen. The other servants are gathering there. They will take care of you.”_

_“Da—”_

_“Kian.” His father seized his arms, and with a start the boy realised that there wasn’t as much difference in height between them as he remembered. His father didn’t even need to bend down to look at him in the face. He was doing so now, with a quietly sad but knowing expression that made the boy’s stomach turn with unease. “It never really went away, did it?” he asked quietly._

_The turn became a jolt, and the boy swallowed. He could have lied. He didn’t want to. “No,” he whispered. “I tried not to use it.”_

_“I know.” His father’s fingers moved through his hair, tender and soft, like he hadn’t done in over three years. The boy choked on the lump in his throat, and closed his eyes to make sure the tears didn’t fall. “I handled it badly. I should have asked more questions. I shouldn’t have simply assumed what it meant. You’ve tried so hard to be a good man, Kian. I should have stopped to ask what it meant, that you could try so hard to be good and still be able to do things no one else can do. But all I could remember was seeing you like that, wreathed in power and conviction, and I was afraid.”_

_“Da, please.”_

_His voice came out raw. His father lifted the cane still in his hand, fitting the handle into the palm of the boy’s. It was a special cane, a priceless one brought from the Orient, its handle inlaid with precious metals from the East. The boy’s father had owned it for as long as the boy could remember, and he had known for just as long that his grandfather had once owned it too. It had been in the family for as long as their estate._

_“Don’t use it, Kian,” his father said, and the boy knew he wasn’t talking about the cane or the thin blade hidden inside. “There are too many of them. If you use it, they will call you a witch, and they will burn you.”_

_“I want to go with you.”_

_“I know.” His father cupped his cheek, and there were tears on his face now, so the boy didn’t mind being unable to stop the ones in his own eyes from falling. “But you do not deserve this. There is no shame in fleeing from a greater enemy. Perhaps, given time, you will be able to rescue our name. But that means you have to live, Kian. So live. For me.”_

_He leaned forward and kissed the boy’s head lightly, just like he’d done when the boy was still a child, and then he turned around and strode toward the door, his back as straight as it had ever been. The boy sank down to the step, clutching the cane and fighting not to lose all his dignity._

_“Master Kian,” said Aengus, leaning toward him and taking his arm to bring him to his feet. The major-domo’s face was pinched and anxious, but his eyes were calm. “We need to go.”_

_The boy couldn’t fight as he was led away, but there was a shout and a ring of steel from outside, and a cry. Something fierce and fearful rose in him, and he wrenched himself away from Aengus and ran for the door. He threw it open and saw his father kneeled beside one of their groundsmen, and before them, on a horse, was the captain of the King’s Guard._

_His father rose, his voice rising in anger, but the boy couldn’t understand the words through the ring in his ears. His father’s hand moved to the hilt of his blade, and the captain’s bloodied sword flashed._

_The boy heard someone scream and knew it was him, but couldn’t stop it. He hurtled across the courtyard, but didn’t manage to reach his father before he had hit the ground. The boy pulled on his father’s shoulder and tried to lift him with both hands, still clutching the cane. His father rolled, and the boy knew that his father was dead, but until he saw his face he couldn’t quite believe it._

_“Here you are,” he heard the captain say in that disdainfully amused voice, but the words came from a distance and through that pulse in his ears. “I would have thought he had you hidden away. Turn yourself in, Kain Molony, and you might just—”_

_The numbness broke. The boy screamed wordlessly and shot to his feet with the cane upraised, and the captain’s shadow turned to a spike and shoved itself through his chest. The horse reared and flung him off, and then fled with pounding hooves. The men shouted. The sound of their voices blended in with the tingling rush of energy, and the boy’s heart thrummed in his head. He caught movement and whirled and a soldier came at him with a sword, but he slashed with the cane and the shadows coiled, and a moment later the soldier no longer had a sword, or an arm, or a head._

_Everything that came next was a melee of movement and a rush of power far beyond anything the boy had felt just when using names. The details were a blur; he remembered shouting and screams and people coming at him with swords, and he remembered slashing and stabbing the air with the cane and watching the shadows of the twilight respond to his every whim._

_Then no one else was coming at him and he stood there, panting, with a roar in his ears and tears on his cheeks and a coppery smell in his nose. Sounds came back to him. He heard someone gasping for breath and turned, and saw Aengus gripping the jamb and looking at him with terror on his face._

_The boy looked down. His clothes were wet with blood. He looked around at the courtyard, and saw the bodies of the King’s Guard, and the bodies of their own guardsmen, and wasn’t sure who had killed who. When he turned around again, Aengus was gone._

_Slowly the feeling of power faded and left the boy exhausted, and the stillness sank in. Something dug into his hand, and when he lifted it he saw the cane had broken in half, and its blade as well. He was just clutching the bloodied pommel._

_The cane. Da’s cane. Da._

_Something wrenched in the boy’s chest and his next breath came out as sob, and he took a step, glancing around wildly before his gaze found his father’s coat. He didn’t kneel as much as collapse beside his father, and tried to lift him onto his lap even though he had no strength left. Instead the boy bowed over his father’s chest, gasping for air through the sobs._

_He couldn’t tell how long he was there, except that after a while he started shivering as his clothes congealed and turned chilly. His skin was still tingling, through the sensation of griminess._

_Something shifted in the air around him and he straightened, his body aching like he’d been there for hours. The sky was still light on the horizon, but darkness had fallen around him, and when he looked up he saw a woman standing across the courtyard._

_She was tall and dark-haired, and wore a traveller’s cloak. She was alone, which was odd, but the boy couldn’t find it in himself to care, and he was too tired to speak. They stared at each other, and the boy waited for her to do something. Maybe she would kill him. Then he could be with Da._

_Except that wasn’t what Da wanted. Da wanted him to live._

_The woman broke their gaze and stepped forward, looking around. “I had wondered,” she said, “what could possibly be responsible for so much magic in one place. This is not quite what I expected.” She looked back at him, and then past him, at the house. “Was this your estate?”_

_“Da’s,” said the boy, but dully._

_“And the English saw fit to take it,” said the woman, with quiet sympathy in her tone. There wasn’t any pity. That was the reason the boy didn’t get angry. That, and he was too tired. “Not an uncommon occurrence, I’m afraid.”_

_She stopped in front of him and looked at him, and the boy had no energy to get to his feet or pretend to be strong. “What’s that in your hand?”_

_The boy managed to unclench his fist to reveal the cane’s pommel in his hand. “It’s Da’s.”_

_Was. His, now, and it was already broken. The boy felt wetness on his cheeks, but he was out of sobs._

_“Inlaid with platinum and palladium, I take it?”_

_Something in the boy stirred, and he looked up. “How did you know that?”_

_“Because there’s no other way you could have channelled and controlled so much magic at once,” she said. “Necromancy requires a focus, you see.”_

_“Necromancy is evil,” the boy said, but he couldn’t find it in himself to say it like he believed it. Maybe it was. The evillest of magic. If it was, what did it matter? The boy’s father was dead. Necromancy was the realm of the dead. Maybe that meant something. Maybe he could change his father’s fate._

_“No, it isn’t,” said the woman, and crouched opposite him. “It is powerful, yes, and it draws power from the presence of death, but death is a natural and beautiful thing. It is a fact of life. It is not evil. And you are very powerful in it.”_

_“I didn’t mean to be,” said the boy. “I tried not to use it. The power, I mean.”_

_“You could no more stop than stop the tide,” said the woman. “Powerful sorcerers rarely can.”_

_“Sorcerer?”_

_“A user of magic. I am one as well; a wielder of necromancy. And I have a proposal for you.”_

_“What proposal?”_

_The woman nodded at the lane leading toward the road. “Very soon, the rest of the Guard will realise something is wrong and come to find their comrades. If they find you here, they will execute you. If you come with me, I will take you to a place, a temple, where you can learn to control your magic.”_

_The boy looked down, and reached out to close his father’s eyes. He had promised he wouldn’t use his magic, but that had been so the Guard wouldn’t kill him. There was no point to that promise now. But he had also promised he would live, and the only way he could do that was if he left. Right now._

_“What about Da?” he asked._

_“They will bury him in a poor man’s grave,” said the woman. “We will go and take him back, and give him a funeral worthy of him.”_

_The boy sat and watched her, and she looked back. She was direct and she didn’t treat him like a child. And she was offering him control of the only thing he had left. He asked, “What is your name?”_

_She smiled at him. “Morwenna Crow. And yours?”_

_He knew better than to give her the name Da had given him. After he started being able to do things no one else could do, he had sought out the old pagan stories about names. He knew how powerful names could be. He wasn’t Kian anymore. He couldn’t be. Kian_ _ó_ _Maolomhnaigh was dead._

_He got to his feet and so did Morwenna Crow, and he looked at her in the eye._

_“Solomon,” he said. “My name is Solomon Wreath.”_

_“Solomon,” she repeated, and smiled, and held out her hand. “Come with me.”_

_He took her hand and the shadows wrapped around them and took them away from the courtyard._


	17. 16

“This is nice,” Gracious said to Donegan as they were led through the halls of the Greek Temple. “Isn’t this nice? Being met at the door, guided through the labyrinth ...”

“With a hundred thousand tons of rock over your head,” Donegan muttered, eyeing the ceiling.

“Relax. It’s survived for this long. I mean, how often do you get cave-ins, right?” This last was directed at their necromantic guide, a slip of a girl with a turned-up nose and the wild-eyed expression Gracious remembered from the various graduate students he’d tried to seduce while he and Donegan were hunting a succubus. (The succubus, as it turned out, wasn’t real.)

“Every now and then,” said the girl with that very same frazzled tone the students had always used when they wanted to get back to their work but were being distracted by some idiot who couldn’t see when they were trying to _work_. (Gracious once had one of them spell it out for him, which was why he no longer tried to seduce graduate students. It was much less fun when he was more likely to have very heavy books thrown at his head.)

Donegan sent Gracious a dirty look. Gracious paused. “Oh. Well, look at it this way: if you knew how Vex conjured things, you could conjure us a shield. Or a pillar.”

“How long ago did the murder take place?” Skulduggery asked the girl.

“Last night,” said the girl. “Or early this morning. I can’t remember. It was late. Early. I was studying.”

It wasn’t the first murder that night. It was just that they had made a stopover in Athens while trying to plot the armour’s course, and received an invitation to come to the Temple. It was a nice change of pace, as opposed to having to bully their way in.

Gracious eyed the girl. “How much coffee have you had?”

The necromancer sent him an anxious look. “Seven cups. Or maybe eight. Why? Does it show? We’re not meant to drink that much of it. The masters say it ruins our concentration. Down here.”

Without waiting for a response, she pointed down a hall and then moved into it.

“All of a sudden necromancers seem as human as the rest of us,” Gracious whispered to Donegan.

“It’s the coffee addiction,” Donegan whispered back. “No human alive can resist coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“You don’t need to. You’re addicted to candy. You get the sugar-rush. It amounts to the same thing.”

“I haven’t had any candy since we left Ireland.”

“So that’s why you’re climbing the walls.”

“In here,” said the necromancer student, pointing to the door which said ‘Library’ on the front and fidgeting. “Is that it? Can I go? I need to study.”

“Maybe some sleep would be better,” Skulduggery said, opening the door and stepping in.

“I wouldn’t mind getting some sleep with her,” Gracious mumbled, and followed. The Greek Temple’s library had a low-ceiling with a broad, well-lit area immediately in front of the door and all the bookcases and aisles slung out to the left. At the far end of the room Gracious caught a glimpse of a slumped figure, and clustered between that and the entrance was a group of robed sorcerers.

They all broke off talking when the three of them entered, but one of them stepped out of the group. He was young, not much older than Gracious or Donegan, with an anxious expression but a surprisingly firm step.

“Detective Pleasant,” he said. “I heard you have been investigating the deaths of my brothers and sisters. Your reputation precedes you.”

“Quiver called you, didn’t he?” Skulduggery asked.

The man shrugged. “He said you knew the man who might be inside the armour.”

“Who are you, then?” Skulduggery moved past the group toward the far wall, not exactly dismissive but enough that Donegan gave an apologetic smile to the necromancers. Skulduggery had forbidden them from talking once they were at the crime-scene. Personally, Gracious felt they couldn’t have insulted anyone any quicker than Skulduggery had. “Did anyone witness the High Priest’s murder?”

“Several students were studying in the library at the time,” said the man, nodding toward a corner by the door. Gracious turned to look and saw a row of quiet, pale young men and woman, all robed in nearly the same way as the older clerics except without the spiffy tailoring. “But you’re mistaken, Detective. Athanasius wasn’t the High Priest of the Greek Temple. I am. My name is Akakios Sotiris.”

Gracious and Donegan exchanged looks and then stared. “Well, that can’t be right,” Gracious said. “The targets are High Priests.”

“The targets have only been High Priests up until now,” Skulduggery corrected. He hadn’t even turned around. Gracious took a few more steps so he could see what Skulduggery was looking at. As it turned out, he was looking at a man, slumped on the desk in the furthest corner and old enough to have grey spread liberally through his dark hair.

“They still have been,” said Sotiris, moving through his underlings to join them and looking down at the man on the desk. Gracious thought he might have actually looked regretful. “Athanasius was High Priest before me.”

“I thought High Priests were only replaced when they died?” Donegan asked.

Sotiris shrugged. “Usually, that is how it works. Most High Priests, once they’ve reached the position, don’t want to give it up. But Athanasius didn’t volunteer; he was elected.”

“He was elected?” Skulduggery asked, tilting his head just enough to give the impression of paying attention without actually shifting his eyeless gaze from Athanasius’s body.

“The High Priest before him was too new for anyone to know his favourites,” said Sotiris. “He died suddenly only a few weeks after _his_ High Priest. Athanasius had a reputation for power and logic. The Temple voted he should take over, rather than risk all of them falling to petty squabbling.”

“I didn’t know necromancers could be so democratic,” Gracious said.

“We have our moments,” Sotiris said, giving him an unreadable look. “In any case, he wanted to retire after the war, so he did. He is—was—a very difficult man to stop from getting his way.”

“Why would he be a target and not you?” Donegan asked bluntly.

Sotiris spread his hands. “I don’t know. None of us know what is driving Vile. All of us are prepared for a visit. But Athanasius hasn’t been in power for nearly a century.”

“Since the war,” said Skulduggery.

“Yes.”

Skulduggery didn’t explain his thought process. What he did do was lean down and lift Athanasius’s head, pulling up his torso, until he was sprawled limply back in the chair. Congealing blood squelched and sucked at skin and fabric.

Gracious raised his hand. “Everyone’s thinking it, I’m just going to say it: ew.”

Skulduggery ignored him and reached down to pick up what was in Athanasius’s lap, and had been hidden by his upper body. It was a book.

“He was a scholar?” Skulduggery asked, turning to Sotiris.

“Not really,” said Sotiris with a frown. “He was a smith. He would come to do research on the smiths of our past, but that was his only interest.”

Now that really was interesting. Sotiris looked ready to say more, but neither of the Irishmen, or the Englishman, really cared about anything past what he’d already said. They all looked up at him. “He was a blacksmith?” Gracious echoed. “You mean he used to forge necromantic items?”

“Yes, of course,” Sotiris said. “Our smiths are some of the most powerful necromancers we have.”

“Oh, this is getting good.” Gracious rubbed his hands together and stood on his toes to see over Skulduggery’s shoulder. Skulduggery closed the book and gave it to Gracious, and he nearly dropped it before putting it on the table.

“I’ll speak to the witnesses now,” the skeleton said.

Sotiris gave him a penetrating look. “First,” he said, “you can tell me what conclusions you’ve drawn. I didn’t invite you into my Temple to practice your belief that all should make way for your investigation, Detective Pleasant.”

“I thought you were being unusually accommodating.”

“I invited you in for answers,” Sotiris continued without missing a beat. “Someone is murdering our brethren. They say it’s Lord Vile, but Lord Vile must surely be dead. If he is not, then how did he survive, and why has he only arisen now? Who is this man Cleric Quiver says is linked to Lord Vile’s armour? Why is he, if it is he, targeting our High Priests?”

“He didn’t target you,” Donegan pointed out.

Sotiris didn’t even look at him. “You’re here because you have a reputation for getting answers. You won’t leave until I have enough to satisfy me.”

“Did that sound like a threat to you?” Gracious asked Donegan.

Donegan nodded. “It sounded a _lot_ like a threat to me.”

Skulduggery sighed. “So much for neither of you speaking during my investigation.”

“You insult people just as fast as we do.”

“What is going on?” Sotiris repeated in a steely voice.

Gracious and Donegan looked at Skulduggery. Skulduggery looked at Sotiris. Behind Sotiris, the other necromancers silently flanked the door, blocking their exit. They didn’t _look_ like they were about to start blaming them for the murders and executing them offhand, but Gracious didn’t like making assumptions when it was three against a dozen.

Finally Skulduggery spoke. “The man inside the armour is called Solomon Wreath. He’s a member of the Irish Temple, and he’s a victim. He defeated Baron Vengeous, but the armour has apparently chosen him as its new owner and is using him as a host.”

There was a moment of silence.

“And that’s it?” Sotiris asked sceptically.

Skulduggery shrugged. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

“Why Athanasius? He was no longer High Priest. Why have the High Priests of some Temples been murdered and not others? What is Wreath, or whoever is controlling the armour, planning?”

“I doubt they’re planning anything,” said Skulduggery.

“They must be,” said Sotiris. “Killing some of us and not others is a pattern—a plan. _Someone_ must be controlling the armour. You won’t leave until you can tell me who.”

“Uh.” Gracious raised his hand. “Not to put a crimp in your brainstorming, here, but if you don’t let us leave we won’t be able to keep investigating to figure _out_ who.”

Sotiris smiled grimly. “Not unless you already know.”

“Oh,” said Donegan.

“Oh?” Gracious rounded on him. “What ‘oh’? You’ve figured out something. You’ve figured out something and you’re not telling me what.”

“They think the Irish Sanctuary is controlling the armour,” said Skulduggery.

Gracious paused. “Oh. May I ask why?”

“I think you already know why,” said Sotiris. Donegan raised his hand.

“I’m English. I’m not affiliated with the Irish government. Can I go home?”

Sotiris looked at him very flatly. “No.”

Donegan shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

“Gracious is right, you know,” Skulduggery pointed out. “Unless you let us go, we can’t continue investigating. You’ll never find out the truth about who’s behind the murders.”

“If _you_ don’t know, which I doubt, then maybe your presence will convince the Irish Sanctuary to admit the truth themselves.” Sotiris turned toward the exit. “Take them to the warded quarters.”

“What do you think?” Donegan asked Gracious. “Think we could take them?”

Gracious looked at the dozen necromancers between them and the exit. Dozen and a half, if they counted the students. “Take eighteen necromancers, then fight our way out from the middle of a Temple with a hundred-thousand tons of stone hanging over our heads?” he said. “Sure, why not?”

“Hold out your hands,” said one of the necromancers, untangling a pair of magic-binding manacles.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” said Skulduggery quietly.

“Yes,” said Sotiris without looking around as he strode away. “Please don’t.”

“Actually,” Skulduggery said a little louder, “I was talking to all of you.”

He threw up his hands and the four necromancers nearest to him flew back. Gracious seized the wrist of the necromancer about to manacle him and yanked him close to head-butt him into submission. Donegan’s hands snapped up and a beam of energy shot out. Two necromancers scattered, but another raised a barrier of shadows.

Then came the counterattack. Counterattacks, in Gracious’s opinion, sucked. Counterattacks usually meant pain, death, or at the very least humiliation.

A fist of shadows struck Gracious in the chest. It didn’t pierce his skin, but the blunt force of it ejected the air out of his lungs and he couldn’t quite keep himself from being thrown over the desk onto the corpse. The chair slid one way and Gracious and Athanasius slid another, and then Gracious hit the floor with a limp but heavy body on top of him.

Not to mention the blood. There was a lot of the blood. He groaned and pushed himself up. “Ew.”

“Far be it for me to object to your new love affair,” Donegan called over the rustle of shadows and the fizzle of his magic, “but you know there’s no escape if you get stuck in a corner, right?”

“Shut up, Donegan,” said Gracious, shoving Athanasius off him and pushing himself to his feet. He overturned the desk just as Donegan rolled over it and took cover. “Welcome to Gracious’s Corner. How may I serve you today?”

“Shut up,” Donegan muttered.

“How’s Skulduggery doing?”

“I don’t know,” Donegan said. “I’m afraid to poke my head out.”

Shadows swelled around the desk and yanked it suddenly away. Gracious and Donegan rolled in opposite directions, and Donegan let off a beam of energy as Gracious dove for the cover of the bookcases. A shadow gripped his ankle and threw him against the wall, and he tumbled down it and hit the floor. A moment later he was up again, rattled but unhurt, and dodged around the corner of the shelf to avoid the ropes which tried to snake up around him. Donegan lunged for the same cover and Gracious jumped aside, shoving hard at the bookcase.

It toppled and he heard shouts of alarm, and then Donegan grabbed his arm and they ran into the darkness between the bookcases. They couldn’t run far enough to escape from the sound of voices tracking them, but they at least could wedge themselves between two bookcases and take a breath.

“You know there’s probably only one exit, right?” Gracious whispered.

“You know that won’t matter because they’ll track us in the darkness, right?” Donegan shot back.

“Why do I suddenly get the feeling Skulduggery is using us as a distraction so he can pursue the armour on his own?” Gracious muttered.

“Because he probably is.”

“You know we can’t let that happen, right?”

“Let’s be realistic,” Donegan said. “We don’t know what will happen. All Dexter said was that on pain of life or death, distract Skulduggery and don’t let him get anywhere near the armour, or else.”

“It’s the ‘or else’ part that worries me. Besides, since when has Dexter Vex ever demanded that we do something as stupid as _distract_ Skulduggery Pleasant while pursuing Lord Vile’s sentient armour?”

“I knew we should have asked to get paid,” Donegan mumbled. “Hey. You know that Teleportation Orb we were working on?”

“Yep.”

“Did we ever finish it?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

“I think,” Gracious said, “we need to do something a little more drastic and a lot more morally ambiguous.”

Donegan looked at him. At least, Gracious assumed from the beat of silence and the minor shift in Donegan’s posture that he was looking at him. It was hard to _actually_ change positions when they were wedged in so tight. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’m thinking we should try out Necromancer Shadow Airlines.”

 

Contrary to popular opinion, kidnapping a necromancer was not all that difficult. The hard part was capturing a necromancer who was prepared for being attacked. The necromancers had got reinforcements in and sent pairs down each of the aisles, tracking the Monster Hunters slowly, shelf by shelf, and forcing Gracious and Donegan backward to the furthest wall where there was no exit. The low mutters of the necromancers hunting them revealed that Skulduggery had managed to slip out of the library, but no one knew where he’d gone.

“Probably in his Bentley, driving off into the sunset, ,” Gracious grumbled as they crept through the aisles, keeping abreast of the Necromancers while searching for one suitable for their needs.

“He didn’t bring his Bentley.”

“Stop crushing my imaginings.”

“Alright, fine. He had his Bentley airlifted from Ireland to Greece solely to drive away into the sunset and leave us behind.”

“Shaking our fists.”

“Shaking our fists. How about that one?”

Gracious peered around the aisle and shrugged. “Why not? I’ll take point.”

He was about to move out around the corner when Donegan took his arm. “How are we going to make him shadow-walk us out of here?”

“Threats usually work well. And if we take his object, that should do it too.”

“If we take his object he won’t be able to take _us_ anywhere,” Donegan pointed out. “And if we let him keep it, he’ll just have it swamp us with all these shadows.”

Kidnapping a necromancer wasn’t all that hard. Kidnapping and coercing a necromancer into shadow-walking them out of the Temple, on the other hand, wasn’t so easy. Gracious paused. “Oh.”

“I have another idea,” said Donegan. “But we need to get past these guys.”

“That, I can do.”

It took all of ten seconds to lay out their target and his partner. They were only young—the necromancers weren’t going to waste their high-ranking clerics on someone they didn’t view as a real threat. Gracious didn’t take it personally. They were, after all, in the middle of the necromancers’ ground, and Skulduggery had already gotten out of the library. Anyone would consider Skulduggery to be the real threat.

“Wait,” said Gracious, and took the necromancers’ robes, bundling them up under his arm.

“Do you really think that’s going to work?” Donegan asked, and Gracious shrugged.

“Waste not, want not, and all that.”

Halfway down the aisle, Donegan stopped and pointed at a bookshelf. “Push this over.”

Gracious looked up at the shelf, and then peered around it down the horizontal gap in the aisles leading from the study-area. If this case toppled, it would take the next, and the next, and the next ... blocking the necromancers in the aisles from getting back easily. Well, aside from the potential to shadow-walk, but how common was that ability, anyway?

Gracious grinned, cracked his knuckles, and shoved the bookcase. With a groan it teetered slowly on its corner, so he shoved it again, and that was when it fell, crashing against the shelves adjacent. Like dominoes they toppled on each other, wood tearing and splintering and books thudding to the floor. Gracious and Donegan sprinted down the aisle on the other side, unheard underneath the shouts and shriek of wood.

They skidded around the bookcase on the end and almost collided with a necromancer coming the other way. Gracious punched without thinking and she went down, and he winced.

“Cad,” said Donegan, but neither of them stopped running, until Donegan yanked on Gracious’s arm and pointed at a random bookcase in the line. “Knock it down.”

Gracious knocked it down. It took three tries this time, and he was panting by the time dust and the sound of breaking wood hit the air.

“I thought you were meant to be a strongman,” Donegan muttered. Gracious scowled at him.

“You’re asking me to knock over five-foot-thick and ten-foot-tall cases filled with massive books in the space of a few seconds.”

“Bliss wouldn’t be panting.”

“Bliss is overcompensating.”

By the time they reached the study-area, the necromancers were in chaos, trying to find their people while simultaneously rescuing the books. After that, it was just a matter of donning the robes and looking official while they hurried out the door, calling behind them, “Going to get reinforcements!”

“That wasn’t too hard,” said Donegan as they strode down the halls, avoiding any corridors where they could hear footsteps. “I’m getting the impression they were being a teensy bit overconfident with their ability to apprehend us before we could escape.”

They reached a junction. Gracious stopped and looked this way and that. “If you want hard,” he said, “then you can tell me which direction we’re meant to go to get out.”

“Weren’t you paying attention when we followed that lady here?”

“I thought _you_ were paying attention when we followed that lady here. And, for the record, I _was_ paying attention. To the lady.”

“So was I!”

They stood there for a few moments, looking at each other. Then Gracious reached into his pocket and pulled out something that looked like a phone, that weighed like a phone, that accepted reception like a phone, but was not actually a phone. He turned it on and swivelled from side to side, but slowly, giving the device time to read the air.

“Is that what I think it is?” Donegan demanded.

“Maybe.”

“I thought you couldn’t get it to work.”

Gracious shrugged. “I may have exaggerated the difficulties I was having with it.”

“Why?”

“You were all gloaty over finishing yours first. It was cute. I didn’t want to ruin your smugness.”

“Mine didn’t fit in my pocket,” Donegan muttered, peering over his shoulder at what Gracious liked to call the Super Deluxe Miniature Pocket Air Reader (For Those Without An Elemental). Or just ‘air-reader’ for short. “Getting anything?”

“It still thinks we’re in a vacuum,” Gracious admitted, “but I figured out that if I’m in a dank underground area, like for instance a necromancers’ Temple, and I point it in the direction of air which is not quite so dank or underground, like for instance an exit, it will generally seem to think we’re at least close to orbiting a sun.”

“Assuming, of course, that we’re close enough to air which is not quite so dank or underground for us to read it,” Donegan pointed out.

“There is that.” Gracious turned to face the left-most corridor and the top of the screen glowed faintly. “That way.”

He set off down the hall, walking quickly on the off chance someone asked them why they were moving away from the library and not helping to find the idiots who were trying to escape. Half an hour, three false-turns and two unconscious necromancers later, they came into the sunlight right behind a group of brightly-dressed tourists. Judging by the serious-faced security-like people in grey turtlenecks, the necromancers were already watching. Quietly Gracious and Donegan shed their disguises and joined the largest tourist group nearby, following slowly along as their guide took them around the exhibits. It was times like this that Gracious was really glad he usually wore black clothes. Otherwise the fact he’d tripped over a bloody corpse might have drawn some attention.

“I have a question,” Donegan said quietly, keeping an eye out for the plainclothes necromancers as the group meandered toward the paths leading off the Acropolis. “When we get out of here, how are we going to find Skulduggery again? I don’t think it will be as simple as calling him, seeing as he just left us there to get captured.”

“Probably not,” Gracious said, “but I know where he’s going anyway.”

“You do? How?”

Gracious threw him an irritated look. “You say that as if it’s surprising I might be able to predict Skulduggery Pleasant’s actions.”

“It _is_ surprising that you can predict Skulduggery Pleasant’s actions. He’s _Skulduggery Pleasant_.”

“That’s true.” Gracious shrugged. “I read it over his shoulder, in that book the dead bloke had. Athan-whatever. He managed to write some notes before he got killed, about another suit of armour some necromancer made back in the day. It was supposed to be an object, but it couldn’t be controlled, went on a rampage, killed its owner and vanished.”

“That sounds awfully familiar,” said Donegan thoughtfully. “Where’s Skulduggery headed, then?”

“Prague,” said Gracious. “He’s going back to Prague.”


	18. 17

Dexter staggered back to his room, fell on the couch and groaned. Every part of his body felt like it was moulding into the contours of the furniture, making it impossible to even imagine getting up again unless it was in about ten hours.

“Is something wrong?” Annunziata asked with frustrating benevolence from somewhere overhead.

“My feet hurt,” Dexter mumbled. “And my knees. And my thighs. I never knew dancing was so exhausting. I could really use a foot-rub. I don’t suppose you give foot-rubs?”

“No.”

“Damn. I need Larrikin for this. Larrikin gives amazing foot-rubs.” Dex counted to ten and then forced himself to roll over, off the couch and onto the floor, and lay there blinking up at the ceiling. At least on the floor he wouldn’t be quite so tempted to go to sleep and never move again. Besides, from this angle he could see Annunziata in the armchair, reading one of the books.

“So where are you at?” he asked, looking up at her. “Has anyone mentioned anything?”

“Nothing,” Annunziata said. “Either they claim they do not know, which is not surprising, or they say it is not their place to speak of such things.”

“I’m not sure which is more annoying.” Dexter paused. “Actually, I think it’s the part where they know and aren’t even trying to hide it.”

“Have you gotten anywhere with the High Priestess?”

Dexter sighed and lifted his knees, putting his feet flat on the floor without much weight on them. After the first night, he had left his boots behind. He’d spent more time tripping over them than actually getting the steps. Now it was easier to actually perform, but his feet were killing him, because these people apparently didn’t believe in carpets. “No,” he said. “She asks me a lot of questions about Clearwater, which I’ve already answered, or Wreath, which I _can’t_ answer, or Vile, most answers of which are incomplete, and then wants me to dance with her. I’d be starting to wonder if she knows any way to leash the armour at all, except that the questions she asks are so specific that she has to be leading up to something. I just don’t know what.”

“Perhaps they are attempting to write such a binding spell while we are here.”

Dexter rolled over to face her, propping up his head on his arm. “What are the chances they wouldn’t already have a necromantic binding that wouldn’t help us?”

“Slim,” Annunziata admitted. “The records I read indicated they had such magic at their disposal when they exiled the first necromancers, and the Temple does not seem to have changed much.”

She was right. The information panel on the surface had said the Temple’s existence was only a rumour. Most of their library had to be intact, even if they’d had to transcribe the books again to keep them from falling apart. That meant they still had to have binding spells specific to necromancy, and so far, they were refusing to give them up.

Dexter checked his watch and sighed, and got to his feet.

“Dinner will be here shortly,” Annunziata said, her attention back on the book.

“I know,” Dexter said. And he was starving, but he had no appetite at all. He was still willing to humour the High Priestess and the physical activity left him hungry, but the closeness of the stone overhead and the lack of natural light took away any desire to eat. Besides, he had a theory he wanted to test out. “I need some fresh air. I’ll be back later.”

He left without any real destination or any idea how to reach a place aboveground. The Kalikula were all pale, but surely they didn’t spend _all_ their time without seeing any sunlight or jungle. The problem was that he didn’t want to ask, in case they mistook his question for an intent to leave for good—either accidentally or deliberately—and followed through accordingly. He wasn’t quite willing to give up on this avenue of investigation yet.

What he would have liked was finding an area which actually had phone reception, so he took his phone with him just in case, but he didn’t have much hope of that working either.

Instead he wandered through the halls of the Temple. None of the worshippers seemed to care much about his presence, except at doors that were actively guarded, and even then they just firmly turned him away. He wondered what would happen if he tried to break through. They didn’t look like they were armed. Were they sorcerers or mortals? Did they have magic, or were there things in those rooms he would regret disturbing?

He decided not ask, but the thought made him think of Saracen’s magic, and how Saracen would _definitely_ have taken advantage of said magic to break in so he could ‘just know’ what was inside.

By now Dexter knew the path from his room to the Priestess’s chamber by heart, but she still sent a guide to take him there. He wasn’t sure why, given that they didn’t stop him from going for walks, but since he’d stopped wearing shoes he’d noticed that there were marks on the pathway leading there. The one time he’d gone off that path since coming in, when he’d missed dinner and been taken to some kind of mess-hall instead, the marks had been different.

No one in this Temple wore shoes. He’d assumed it was to stop people escaping. Then he’d assumed it was because they didn’t feel the need for them. But now he wondered.

He came to an intersection he’d never been down and paused there, waiting for a worshipper to go by. Then, experimentally, he put a foot into the next hall, across the invisible dividing line. He had to use his foot, because there was only one light and it was dim—too dim to see the ground without actually getting down on his face. The lights were considered a commodity.

He didn’t feel any marks. Dexter walked the edges of the intersection, using his toes to feel out the area just inside each corridor. The other three corridors, including the one from which he’d come, all had marks. They were differently shaped, but it took a little while for him to figure that out, just because ... well, it wasn’t every day that he used his _foot_ to read. He still couldn’t be sure whether the marks were actually pictures; all he knew was that they were, at least, different from one another, and what those differences were.

But he’d be damned if he knew where each of them led. Except for his corridor—he knew it led back to the living quarters.

Dexter walked another circle in the tight space, then decided to hell with it and moved down the corridor without any marks on it at all, just because it was the easiest to distinguish from the others. He didn’t have enough light to look at his watch; his flashlight, for reasons beyond him, had been the only thing the Kalikula had confiscated. He would have assumed it was to make him dependant on them, except that they had left his gun and clips right where they’d been in his bag.

In spite of his internal clock, Dexter wasn’t sure how long he walked before he came across another hallway adjoining his. He felt around the entrance with his toe, and didn’t find any marks, so he went down it. Soon he came to another corridor, leading back in the direction he’d come, but it had a mark so he ignored it. So did the third corridor.

The fourth hall was where things got interesting. It didn’t have a mark, but the floor of the continuing hall did, and Dexter abruptly realised that this was true of all the other corridors, even the one leading to the Priestess. He’d wondered about the pattern and necessity of the marks, but each mark was placed at a junction, even in the continuing passages. They were maps.

Well, he didn’t know where any of them led and he had to start somewhere. Dexter kept following the unmarked halls, turning this way and that and hoping he would be able to distinguish the mark to get back to the living quarters from the others. He went on long after dinner must have been served, and long after his hunger had turned into a rubbery sort of exhaustion in his limbs. He was just debating turning back when he rounded a corner and there, in front of him, was the exit.

It wasn’t the same exit where they’d come into the Temple. That had been a badly lit flight of steps. This was just an opening in the stone, as if the corridor had suddenly cut off and in front of it was green fronds and trees and the open night sky. The question was whether it was guarded.

Cautiously Dexter approached, taking deep breaths of the fresh air and wishing he could rush forward and out from under the heavy stone. Grim experience had taught him not to be so stupid.

Nothing happened. Nothing happened when he reached where laid cobbles turned to naturally shaped rock, or when he stepped out between the ferns, or when he took another deep, glad breath of humid air. Even heavy as it was, at least that air wasn’t musty. So he took a few more steps out, still careful but not quite so wary, and found himself on a bluff overlooking a stream far, far below.

He looked up and saw stars and stars, and the fat ribbon of the galaxy stretching overhead. They were the kind of stars he remembered people taking for granted a couple of centuries ago. Hopeless had been a stargazer. He’d never been an astronomer, but he said that it helped him to remember how small he really was. Most of the time Dexter could relate to that perspective, even enjoy it.

Right now, it just made him feel lost. Here he was, one small man in the face of the cosmos, trying to do what could well be impossible. It had been a rule of war: not everyone could be saved. People died. You couldn’t stop that. You just minimised the damage.

But this wasn’t war. This was about his brothers, his family, and they always _could_ be saved. It had never mattered how many missions they went on, or how many times they got into trouble. They could get themselves out of it. They were Dead Men.

And now that Hopeless wasn’t around to be hurt by the thought, Dexter couldn’t help but wonder: this time, what if they couldn’t?

It took him a while, but eventually Dexter realised he was being watched, and turned around. Sati was sitting on a rock over the entrance, which didn’t look like anything other than a shadow behind the foliage. She gazed at him, unspeaking, her eyes invisible in the darkness and the blackness of her skin. After a moment Dexter turned and climbed up the side of the Temple exit, and sat beside her. His back prickled with the sensation of the yawning clearing behind them, and he had to resist the urge to look around to watch for nocturnal predators.

Sati didn’t seem worried. She just looked over the view, at the shadows and dips in the valley below, and the pinprick stars overhead.

“I was starting to wonder if any of you ever left the Temple,” he said finally, for something to say.

“Every now and then,” said Sati, her shoulders rising and falling, a shadow in the night. “What were you thinking?”

“Nothing much.”

“That didn’t look like ‘nothing much’, Dexter Vex.”

Dexter sighed. “Look,” he said, “I get that you need to be all mysterious and priestessly, but can we at least skip the cliché parts where you make me face the truth of my existence and spirituality, or whatever, and cut to the chase?”

Sati laughed. “You come to a Temple and yet expect to be given straight answers? You’re more naïve than I gave you credit for.”

“I’m just saying it would be nice,” Dexter grumbled.

“If we didn’t make you work for our knowledge,” she said, “where would be the worth in it?”

Dexter frowned. “So that’s what you’re doing? Making me work for it? How long will that take?”

“That’s up to you.”

He quelled the spark of irritation. “Did you miss the fact that, if we don’t contain this armour, it will continue to murder until there is nothing left in the world but what it’s brought back itself?”

Sati looked back at him. Her eyes were red. He didn’t know if it was contact lenses or something else, but the effect in the darkness was extremely eerie. “What do you expect?” she asked. “You haven’t been completely forthcoming. There are things about this armour you refuse to tell me. How do you expect me to solve your problem when you won’t even tell me what it is in its entirety?”

“That’s not my secret to tell.”

“And yet,” she said, “you’re here and the owner of the secret isn’t, and would probably never know even if you did say anything, and if the armour is as dangerous as you say it is they probably won’t care that you talked about it—if it meant stopping it.”

Dexter deliberately gave her Rover’s most mulish expression. She looked at him and laughed again, loudly, so that the air carried the sound away into the basin. In spite of himself, Dexter grinned. It didn’t last long. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you say. This is something I swore wouldn’t leave our group, and it won’t. Not from me. I don’t have that right.”

“Even if it’s the final piece I need to solve your problem?”

“Even then.”

For some long moments they sat there, looking at each other and listening to the chirp of beetles and the cry of nightlife. Then Sati broke the quiet.

“You said ‘our group’. Tell me about this group. You have mentioned others, very familiarly, but given no details. Who are they?”

Dexter returned his gaze to the view. “I thought you’d heard of us.”

“I heard rumours attached to names,” said Sati. “That didn’t tell me how many stories were true.”

“That depends on who you talk to. Most people assume they’re exaggerated.”

“But they aren’t, are they?” Sati said softly, watching the distant sway of the canopy. In the dim light, it looked like an ocean moving.

“Why do you say that?” Dexter asked without looking at her.

“Because,” she said, “you’re Dead Men.”

There was something in the way she said it, something beyond the usual awe and respect and fear Dexter usually heard from some fan or another. A quiet sort of reverence, almost, that made him feel uncomfortable.

“So?” he asked, frowning. She looked at him with those unblinking red eyes.

“Have you forgotten who we worship here?”

“Kali,” he said, “but Kali doesn’t have anything to do with our naming. It was just what people told us when we started volunteering for the truly suicidal missions.”

“And how many of you are still alive?”

Dexter looked away. “With the obvious exception of the cheating skeleton,” he said, “all of us.”

“And you wonder at Kali-ka’s hold in your life?” Dexter’s frowned deepened and he glanced back, and would have spoken except that Sati went on before he could. “Death follows you and embraces you, Vex. In battle, in peace, in love and in hatred and family.”

“You don’t have a very encouraging bedside manner.”

“Why aren’t you embracing it?”

“Embracing what? Embracing death?” Dexter laughed, suddenly and bitterly, surprising himself. “Because that’s not what life is about. Life is about life. Making life about death is just … silly. Death comes soon enough. Why invite it?”

“Then why did you volunteer for so many suicide missions?”

Dexter shrugged. “Someone had to.”

“And so you found your family, Dead Men all of you, by following Kali-ka’s way.”

He didn’t want to admit she might be right, but he didn’t know what to say, so he leaned on his hands and looked at the sky. For a long time Sati let him, but eventually she broke the silence.

“When you talk about stopping this armour from wreaking death upon the world,” she said, “exactly who is it you’re trying to save?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You can’t save everyone, Dexter.”

Dexter froze. He was sure his heart even skipped a beat, but he was more preoccupied with the violent clench in his gut. “I know that,” he said in a low voice.

“Then why are you trying?”

“I’m not trying to save everyone,” he snapped, his patience worn thin, because Sati wasn’t one of them and it wasn’t fair that she could read him so well, and say things that were so much like—like Hopeless. Hopeless was the only who was allowed to do that.

Dexter sat up, and turned toward her. “You said you heard stories, right? Then let me tell you a story. It’s about a group of men who witnessed so much suffering, to themselves and to others, that they stopped caring about their own lives and only cared that maybe, if they were lucky, they could do something meaningful with what was left of them. But no matter how many times they tried to throw their lives away they were always around to help each other, even when the suffering got really bad, and they did it, because each of them figured the others’ lives were worth more than their own. Even when they got captured, or tortured, or did things only a saint would ever forgive. They got so good at not dying that they started to wonder if it was even possible, and then they stopped wondering and just accepted the fact that they would always be there, no matter how broken each of them got, just because there was no one else, and they didn’t _need_ anyone else. And even when things happened and they couldn’t save each other from more pain, or more grief, or more evil, it didn’t matter, because they were _still there_.”

He rose suddenly, his heart pounding. He felt angry, and restless, but most of all he felt afraid. Because things _did_ come to an end, and most of all he was terrified this would be it, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Sati rose silently with him and took his hand before he could leave. “Dance with me.”

He looked at her, and knew his expression was cold, and didn’t care. “Why? Why should I? What good would it to?”

She shrugged. “For one thing, it would let you work off that nervous energy.”

For a long minute Dexter stood there, tense and restless and stubborn. Then his shoulders dropped and he exhaled a sigh, and let the High Priestess lead him through the trees.


	19. 18

_Dublin’s marketplace was bustling. Once upon a time, Solomon would have enjoyed a walk to see the stalls. Markets always differed in each city. Now, he didn’t dare. He was on a mission, and while not a fun mission it was an important one. That is, he had been sent out to do the Temple’s shopping._

_It wasn’t precisely something for a fourteen-year-old acolyte, but in the year since he had been at the Temple Solomon discovered that many_ clerics _never left the Temple barring short journeys. Shopping was beneath the notice of the clerics, but most of the older acolytes, while familiar with bartering (given the unspoken system of checks and balances which existed among them), also had very little idea how to go unnoticed in a mortal city’s market. Or how to navigate them._

_Which meant that a fourteen-year-old had been sent instead. A fourteen-year-old who, at least, had experience in the mortal world. Not that it was necessarily a gain, Solomon had discovered—even though the Temple found his childhood outside the Temple useful, the fact he had come from the outside meant he was regarded with suspicion. He wasn’t certain whether this particular mission was going to strengthen his reputation or lessen it—not that he had much of one to begin with._

_He was also trying to ignore the unexpected sensation of relief when he came into the sun._

_The main problem was avoiding the King’s Guard. Part of him hoped his father hadn’t been so big a thorn in their side that they would remember the name and face of his son. Another part, a part he had grown very good at ignoring, felt as if they_ should _. It would, at least, be vindicating in some fashion. Either way, Solomon was careful to avoid attracting the attention of the authorities, mostly by turning down streets and alleys to dodge the approach of patrols coming in the opposite direction._

_It was just that one of the alleys he chose to turn down was already occupied._

_Solomon almost stopped at the sight of the two men blocking his path, but at the last moment he concealed the hitch in his step or any indication that he had been surprised or intimidated. The only way out was back into the path of the King’s Guard—and that wasn’t worth the risk. Instead he moved forward with the same purposeful stride, and only stopped about five feet away when it became clear that the men weren’t going to move._

_“You’re in my way,” he said calmly, setting the tip of his cane on the ground in the same comfortable, deceptively casual stance he had seen his father use so many times. He ignored the twinge in his chest at the thought, and focussed on not showing how clammy his hands had suddenly gotten. “Please do be good fellows and move.”_

_One of the men, the shorter man, laughed. “Listen to ’im! Right little aristocrat, innee?”_

_“So he is,” said the taller man. His accent was nearly as broad as his companion’s, except for an oddly precise intonation which kept the sounds from slurring together. “You have to wonder what a little aristocrat is doing in our dark little alley.”_

_Solomon fixed him with an unimpressed stare. “I needed a shortcut.”_

_“That’s the thing about shortcuts,” said the tall man with the kind of smile that seemed, on the surface, to be very amiable but wasn’t. “Most of the time, they’re not worth following.”_

_“For you,” said the short man. “For us, it’s real worth following. It ain’t even that hard to pass, really. There’s just a toll, see.”_

_Solomon’s eyes narrowed at the same time that his heart pounded. He’d been given just enough money to cover the shopping. He didn’t have enough to bribe anyone, as if if the thought of having to bribe someone wasn’t galling enough. And he refused to bribe anyone. He shouldn’t have to, and it was the exact same thing the King was doing with every Irishman who owned land._

_At least they were only mortals. It meant that Solomon had the advantage. People might listen if they started going around squawking about a witch, but by then he would be long gone. He hoped._

_He’d rather it didn’t come to that, but the problem was getting them to believe it. He was only fourteen. He was taller now than he was, but still not his full height, and the clothes he’d borrowed to pass in public weren’t tailored like the ones he’d outgrown six months ago. No matter how much he wished he looked impressive, he knew that he looked like a child pretending._

_He hated looking like a child pretending. There had been no pretence about him in years._

_“I’m not paying you for use of a public alley,” Solomon said, controlling his breathing so that his racing heart wasn’t a distraction. “And I’m not worth your trouble threatening. The people I work for won’t like it if anything happened to me. Let me through, and you won’t have to discover that.”_

_The tall man gave him an odd look, but his smile didn’t flicker. The short man just laughed, and took out a knife with a shrug. “Too bad. If you can’t pay the toll with money, there’s other ways. Ain’t like the people you work for will know who you were stupid enough to refuse.”_

_He took a step forward. Solomon stood his ground and lifted his cane and flicked it, and a shadow lunged out of the wall and the short man yelped and jumped back. He almost tripped over his own feet and he wavered for balance. Solomon flicked his cane again and the tendril struck the man’s hand, and sent the knife spinning away down the alley._

_Solomon resisted the urge to curse. He’d meant to have the shadow bring it back to him._

_The short man hit the ground hard and rolled, wheezing and with wide eyes. “Did you see that?! Did you see what he did? What_ is _he?”_

_The tall man was very still, and looking at Solomon with an odd expression which made very cold disquiet trickle down Solomon’s back. “That’s easy,” said the tall man with that fake-friendly smile. “He’s a necromancer.”_

_The short man stared at his friend. His eyes were still wide, and now his breathing was fast and laboured with fright. “He’s a what? What are you talking about?”_

_“A necromancer,” repeated the tall man. “A little baby necromancer, all the way from his Temple. He probably hasn’t even reached his Surge yet.”_

_“His Surge? What are you talking about?!”_

_His voice had gotten high, and the tall man sighed. “He’s a child with a few magic tricks. Go ahead and run along if you’re that afraid.”_

_The short man set his jaw. “I ain’t afraid.”_

_“Good,” said the tall man, and stepped forward. Solomon almost stepped back, stopped himself, but wasn’t able to stop the flinch. His heart was suddenly pounding too fast for him to keep it level by counting his breaths. “What’s your name, boy?”_

_Solomon swallowed and lifted his chin, and focussed on the man’s face to avoid giving any ground to the dizzy confusion. This man knew about necromancy, but he wasn’t a necromancer. He couldn’t be. Solomon had never seen him before, and the Temple wasn’t that big. “What’s yours?”_

_The tall man’s smile hadn’t wavered. Solomon was starting to hate that smile. “That won’t matter to you. Don’t be rude to your elders, boy.”_

_Solomon stared back, flatly to cover his shaky knees. “You haven’t earned my respect, yet.”_

_The tall man grunted. “Necromancer brat.”_

_He flung out his hand and something collided with Solomon, so hard that it made pain lash down his neck and back. He hit the wall of the adjacent building, and then the force let him go and he collapsed to the cobblestones, gasping for air. He’d dropped his cane, but it was lying only a couple of feet away. He reached for it and the tall man trod on his hand, and he cried out as the man ground his heel into Solomon’s fingers._

_“Now,” said the tall man pleasantly, “let’s try this again. What’s your name?”_

_Solomon grit his teeth and said nothing, blinking away the tears of pain. The short man was right behind his friend, staring with wide eyes but glancing down at the cane. Solomon’s stomach jolted. The shaft of the cane had been forged in the Temple, but the pommel was_ his _. His, and inlaid with enough precious metal to pay for both men’s finances for at least a year._

_“Don’t,” he said, and the short man grinned at him past his friend. It was a forced grin, trying to be braver than he was, and he bent to reach for the cane. Solomon cried out again as the tall man put all his weight on his hand to kick the cane away._

_“Oy!” protested the short man. “We could sell that!”_

_“Touching a necromancer’s item without express permission means death,” said the tall man without looking at his companion. All the blood drained out of the mortal’s face until he looked sick, and he backed away from the cane._

_“Curses,” he mumbled, “and devilry. Who_ are _you people?”_

_“I’m your friend, of course,” said the tall man in a tone of such exasperation that Solomon really doubted ‘friend’ could be an accurate word, or at least wouldn’t be for much longer. “But he’s just a brat, playing at being a real sorcerer.” He stepped off Solomon’s hand and Solomon drew it up to his chest and scrambled to his feet, and lunged for his cane. That invisible force slammed into him again, but this time when his back hit the wall he didn’t fall. Instead the force remained there, pushing him up against the hard brick until he gasped for air._

_The tall man kept his hand outstretched as he came closer. The closer he came, the heavier the weight on Solomon’s chest grew, until the corners of his vision started to blur and his heart pounded with fear. He could see just enough to know the tall man’s smile had gained a cutting edge, and his partner’s heels as the mortal fled. Solomon tried to lift his hands, but he couldn’t even move them._

_“Do you know what the Sanctuary thinks of necromancers, boy?” he asked. “I’ll let up enough so that you can answer, now.” He did something, Solomon wasn’t sure what, and the weight eased enough that Solomon could drag in a shallow breath._

_“No,” he croaked. He didn’t even know what the Sanctuary was. He didn’t know who this man was, except that he hated necromancers. Master Crow had mentioned ‘others’, a few times, but any time he asked the masters all they said was that they were irrelevant. Now it seemed absurdly obvious there were others with magic. But Solomon still didn’t understand why this man should hate necromancers so much, unless he was as ignorant as Solomon had once been, and he clearly wasn’t._

_“They hate necromancers,” said the tall man, coming close enough to touch. “You worship death, for God’s sake. Any right-thinking person who know how wrong that is. You’re just pests, in the end. So you see why I don’t care about the people you work for? Because no one will care if anything happens to you. I might even get a reward.”_

_He smiled and reached into Solomon’s pocket for the coinpurse, and Solomon couldn’t help the flare of anger. The man only laughed as he struggled, and flexed his hand, and the force slammed into him again. Solomon’s head hit the bricks, and for a moment his vision swirled. Angrily he wrenched his mind back to where it should have been, but that didn’t stop the back of his head from aching._

_“There’s nothing you can do,” said the tall man, “but if it’s any consolation, I’m saving you from a life of abject misery.”_

_“Funny,” said another voice, a smooth voice like velvet. “I was about to say the same thing.”_

_Flames burst to life around the tall man’s coattails. With a yelp he reeled backwards and slapped at the fabric, and the invisible weight vanished. Solomon dropped to the ground and coughed, and dragged in air. He tried to force his limbs to move toward his cane, but they didn’t want to obey. He needed a weapon. He didn’t have a name, so he needed a weapon._

_“You’re an Elemental,” said the velvet voice disbelievingly. “Why don’t you just put out the fire?”_

_The tall man growled and Solomon looked up to see him beat out the last of the flames, glaring at the newcomer at the alley’s end. He was tall, even taller than the brigand, but wearing a suit that was much better tailored, and he had brown hair and twinkling green eyes._

_“Who are_ you _?”_

_“I’d tell you,” said the man with green eyes, “but you’re very rude, refusing to give our friend there your name after he asked, so I don’t think you deserve to know. Besides, you didn’t answer my question. Why didn’t you just put out the fire?”_

_“What’s it to do with you?” snarled the tall man._

_“To me? Not much at all. But it implies you’re either magically impotent, or ... no, actually, it just implies you’re magically impotent. I suppose that means you can’t be a_ real _sorcerer.”_

_The tall man seemed to be momentarily beyond words, either because he wasn’t used to being back-talked by someone who could so obviously take care of themselves or his own words were being thrown back at him. Solomon glanced toward his cane, lying a few feet away against the wall, and then returned his attention to the two men while pushing himself up enough to inch toward it._

_“In fact,” continued the man with green eyes, “I might even go so far as to say you’re just an upstart with a few magic tricks.”_

_“What about you?” demanded the tall man. “You aren’t very old. What do you know about magic?”_

_“For one thing, I have far more finesse while using it,” said the man with green eyes, and now also with a smile that was faintly condescending and yet, at once, suggestive of a secret. Solomon kept his gaze on them, and shifted further backward. “For another, I know how to actually conjure water. Do you? Those are just to start. I’m sure I could come up with many, many other things.”_

_The tall man looked baffled and angry at once. “Who_ are _you?”_

_“Haven’t you realised yet? I’m your mark’s best friend.”_

_Solomon froze as the tall man’s gaze flickered at him, but the man only sneered. “You don’t even know his name.”_

_“Ah. Yes. That is a drawback. What_ is _your name?”_

_“Solomon Wreath,” Solomon said steadily, sitting still and not at all as if he had been making a move for his cane. The tall man was nearer to him than the man with green eyes, but they were both cutting off his exits, and Solomon didn’t know what either could do except that his head and neck were aching where he’d been thrown up against the wall, and his hand where it had been trod upon._

_“There you are,” said the man with green eyes, nodding in Solomon’s direction. “I’m Solomon’s best friend. Aren’t I, Solomon?”_

_“I don’t know your name,” Solomon pointed out. If he’d been mortal, Solomon wouldn’t have_ wanted _to know his name, but since he was a sorcerer, that meant his name was most likely protected. It meant Solomon couldn’t hurt him. Which was most likely the same for the tall man, as well. Even if he had told Solomon his name, it would have been useless._

 _“Skulduggery Pleasant,” said the man with green eyes with a slight bow, “since it’s you asking and not our dour-faced friend here.” He looked at the tall man. “I’d ask for_ your _name again, but I actually don’t care. I’ll just call you Babel instead. Are you satisfied yet, Babel?”_

_“Skulduggery Pleasant?” Babel laughed, and it sounded almost relieved. “I’ve never heard of you before. And here I was afraid you were sent by the Sanctuary.”_

_“That didn’t exactly answer my question,” said Skulduggery, “but I suppose it will do. Now, Babel, you know what I think should happen? I think you should give Solomon back his coinpurse, and then I think you should toddle off. Isn’t that a good idea?”_

_“_ I _think you’re an arrogant youngster who doesn’t know anything about real magic,” said Babel, much more confidently now. “And that you’re the one who should walk away, before you get hurt.”_

_“Oh, but I’m having so much fun,” Skulduggery said, and then smiled. “Why don’t we ask Solomon his opinion, then? Solomon, that’s a remarkably considering expression you’re wearing. I don’t actually see much fear in it at all. Why don’t you tell us why you’re not afraid anymore?”_

_Why he wasn’t—Solomon felt like laughing. How had he known? It couldn’t have been because of his expression, surely? Solomon hadn’t even been sure of what he was feeling until just then._

_Babel turned toward him with his brow furrowed in puzzlement, and Solomon smiled up at him. “You said that no one would miss a necromancer,” he said, “but you were worried that Skulduggery had been sent by the Sanctuary. And while I might only be a brat playing at being a real sorcerer, he isn’t. If you kill me, you’d have to kill him, and I just don’t think you’re capable of that.”_

_With a snarl Babel moved toward him and lifted a hand, and Solomon braced himself for the wall of air—what else could it be?—that struck him. He felt a ripple of something powerful passing him by, and in the same moment the force bearing down on him vanished. He dropped and grit his teeth against the jar in his limbs, and glimpsed Skulduggery rushing past. When he looked up he saw Babel hit the ground hard and roll back to his feet, shaking his head, and then Skulduggery throw a punch._

_Solomon scrambled for his cane and whirled around. Solomon had never in his life been involved in a fist-fight, but he could still tell that Skulduggery was a good fighter. It was just that Babel was better; older and more experienced, with years on the streets and having to defend his life. He laid Skulduggery down with a punch to his jaw, and Solomon swept his cane around, his eyes narrowed._

_The shadows rippled along the walls and flipped Babel down the alley, where he hit the cobblestones awkwardly and rolled over with a groan._

_“Excellent,” Skulduggery said, getting to his feet and rubbing his jaw. Solomon lowered his cane, breathing hard and with his heart pounding, even though he hadn’t done much. It was still more than anything he’d managed since he was brought into the Temple. He’d been beginning to wonder if Master Crow had taken him in out of charity, instead of the power she’d claimed he had._

_Babel staggered to his feet and Skulduggery clicked his fingers, and threw a fireball at him. It caught on Babel’s coat and shirt, and the man shrieked, scrabbling at his burning clothes and vanishing around the corner._

_“I suppose that means he_ can’t _summon water,” Skulduggery mused, and turned to Solomon, dusting off his clothes as if he’d merely been caught in a cloud by a passing carriage. “Would you like to help me find a thief?”_

_Solomon stared, trying to catch up. One moment, Skulduggery had been in a potential life-or-death scuffle. Now he was ... asking Solomon to help him find a man? Then Solomon became aware that his mouth was open and shut it, looking away to try and set his thoughts on track. “Why?”_

_“Why?” Skulduggery repeated, sounding surprised. “Because we make a fairly good team, and don’t you think it would be far more interesting than running a few errands for the Temple?”_

_“I—” It probably would be. But Solomon shook his head, more violently than he meant, to try and dislodge the thought. “I can’t. I have a responsibility. The Temple must come first.”_

_“Oh dear,” said Skulduggery. “They do have you, don’t they?”_

_“It’s my home,” Solomon said, very firmly._

_“Is it?” Skulduggery looked him up and down. “That’s the sort of response I’d expect from someone who had been raised there and quite effectively brainwashed. The sorcerer who helped me make Babel look like an upstart with a few magic tricks, which to be fair he is, is far too intelligent to let himself be brainwashed so easily.”_

_“I’m not—”_

_“When did you join the Temple?”_

_Solomon floundered for a moment, and then used the answer he’d been given. “I was born there.”_

_“Oh, I doubt that,” said Skulduggery. “You know your way around Dublin far too well. You haven’t reached your Surge, but they still let you out. Those clothes you’re wearing are cast-offs, but you stand as though you’re wearing something finely tailored. You’re just as intelligent and observant as you look, and you think on your feet in a crisis, which suggests an expensive tutor or a life full of crisis to teach you. Or both.”_

_Skulduggery had called Solomon observant, and yet he was drawing conclusions from very slight clues. How was Solomon supposed to answer? Even if he had a lie ready, which he didn’t, Skulduggery would probably see through it._

_“What does this have to do with anything?” Solomon demanded, choosing aggression as a defence. “It isn’t any of your business. I thank you for helping me, but I have no need of your help any longer.”_

_“So you’re not even the least bit curious about other forms of magic, then?” Skulduggery asked._

_“How do you know I didn’t already know about them?”_

_“You looked surprised,” Skulduggery said. Solomon looked away._

_“Then no, I’m not.” It was a lie, and he knew it, and he knew Skulduggery knew it too. The curiosity was so strong it burned in his chest. But he couldn’t afford to say anything else. The Temple had given him a home when the mortal world had stolen his. He couldn’t even begin to wonder what else there might be out there. Not when he owed them so much. “As I said, thank you for your help, but I have things I need to do before I return to the Temple.”_

_Skulduggery shrugged and smiled sadly. “Suit yourself.”_

_Solomon turned and walked away, keeping his back stiff. He had reached the end of the alley before he realised that Babel had taken his coinpurse, and hadn’t given it back before he went scurrying off. In fact, Solomon had forgotten all about it. He turned and saw Skulduggery still standing there, his arms crossed and wearing a smug expression._

_“Would you really have let me walk away?” Solomon asked, unable to help a smile. He hoped it was exasperated._

_“I had confidence in you,” Skulduggery said._

_“In my ability to do what, precisely?”_

_“I’ll leave that up to your imagination.” Skulduggery straightened up and came closer, and his eyes were still twinkling. “I’ll make you a deal. If you help me seek out this thief and take back the item of immeasurable wealth and value which he stole, I will pay you back every penny Babel stole from you. How does that sound?”_

_For a moment Solomon considered. His alternatives were obvious: he could go back to the Temple and get into trouble for losing their coin, without anything to show for it. Or he could earn the money back, and bring back the shopping. They weren’t expecting him for the rest of the day anyway; they had sent him out because he knew Dublin, but they were still anticipating it would take him time to find everything on the list._

_In that context, the choice was obvious. He could easily use logic to defend it. But, more to the point, he_ wanted _to do this. The Temple was teaching him, yes, but more often than not he found himself very bored with the slow nature of the lessons. Practice duels were as exciting as anything got, in the Temple, and even then both combatants were using the same magic. Now he knew there was more to magic than necromancy. That alone was exciting._

_He smiled. “Deal.”_

 

_“That’s it?” Solomon stared at object between Skulduggery’s fingers. “You said the stolen item was something of immeasurable wealth and value.”_

_“And so it is.”_

_“It’s a spool of thread.”_

_Skulduggery shifted the spool to make the afternoon sun gleam off the polished wood as they walked. “This is a Spool of Unbreakable Thread. It’s a magical item. Master Ardan and his son are two of the very few tailors who can make magical clothes whose magic doesn’t fade after a year.”_

_Oh. Well, that did make a difference, Solomon supposed, but he still couldn’t help but eye the spool dubiously. “So it’s very expensive, is it? How many suits can one spool tailor?”_

_“Not all that many,” said Skulduggery, “and since it looks exactly like an ordinary spool of thread, it costs as much as—well, an ordinary spool of thread.”_

_“Then what’s so immeasurably wealthy and valuable about it?”_

_Skulduggery shrugged. “Mostly the fact that it was Ghastly’s last spool, and the shipment from the Orient has been delayed. Now at least he can make me_ one _new suit before then.”_

_“You said the spool was stolen two weeks ago. How do you know the shipment hasn’t arrived?”_

_“Because I was in their shop yesterday. Besides, I’m running out of clean suits.”_

_Solomon sighed, chose not to point out that the shipment could very well have arrived this morning, and looked up at the sky. It was only early afternoon—enough time for Solomon to finish his shopping, so long as he got paid very soon. The only question was how to approach the matter before Skulduggery was distracted by his own self-satisfaction or deliberately evaded the question. Solomon had learned a great many things over the course of the morning. Chief among them was that Skulduggery was talented, charming, arrogant and overly taken with the sound of his own voice._

_“I suppose you’ll have to take the spool back to your friend, then,” he said._

_“Oh, probably,” Skulduggery agreed, and pointed at the townhouse opposite them in the square. “But now that we’re here, I also have a witness to question about another case.”_

_“We?” Solomon raised an eyebrow. “I’m only being paid for one case.”_

_“Consider it a complimentary investigation.”_

_Solomon suppressed the smile he didn’t really want to show and gave Skulduggery his best stern look. “As generous as that is, I’m going to need an hour’s sunlight to get back to the Temple, and I still need to buy supplies.”_

_“Ah, yes,” Skulduggery said. “Every last penny Babel took, yes?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Skulduggery shrugged and reached into his pocket, and held out a coinpurse. “Very well, then. Here you go.”_

_Solomon accepted the coinpurse and weighed it in his hand, gazing down at it. It was similar to the coinpurse he’d had this morning. The same size, the same shape. In fact, it even had the sewn-up tear in the side to keep the string on. Skulduggery must have lifted it from Babel’s pocket in their tussle._

_Solomon looked up. “This is the same purse Babel took from me,” he said. “I think I’ve been cheated.”_

_“Cheated?” Skulduggery’s eyes widened. “Why ever would you think that?”_

_“Because you promised you’d pay me for helping you with this investigation,” Solomon answered, “while all the while possessing the money already mine, which you could have returned at any time, as any honest man would have done.”_

_“Ah.” Skulduggery raised a finger. “All I said was that if you helped me, I would give you every last penny Babel stole from you. And haven’t I just now done exactly that?”_

_Solomon stared at him for a moment, and then, against his will, laughed. “I suppose you did.”_

_“Exactly. I am a man of my word, Solomon.”_

_“Yes, your word and nothing else.”_

_They stopped in a corner of the courtyard, near the street leading to the markets. Solomon pocketed his coinpurse and looked up at Skulduggery. Not all that far, he was pleased to see. He wasn’t quite grown into his full height yet, but he wasn’t far off. Maybe he would turn out as tall as Skulduggery._

_“Good luck in your investigation, Detective Pleasant,” he said formally._

_“Detective Pleasant,” Skulduggery mused. “I like that. Are you sure you’re not interested in one last investigation? You could be my partner.”_

_Solomon shook his head, and was surprised by the sensation of disappointment. He had everything he needed at the Temple, and he had responsibilities there. He couldn’t simply leave them. Nor did he want to leave the chance to learn how to control his magic. Even though now he knew there were other kinds of magic out there, and there was apparently nothing preventing him from using them ..._

_“No,” he said firmly, both to Skulduggery and to halt his runaway thoughts. “I need to go. They’re expecting me. Good afternoon, Skulduggery.” He turned and walked away, his cane on his arm, fully expecting to never see Skulduggery Pleasant again and trying not to be disappointed by that fact._

_Two days later the Temple sent him out for more supplies, this time for mundane items relating to the most domestic aspects of the Temple. Things servants usually took care of, and with which Solomon now had an unfortunate familiarity. On that list was a Spool of Unbreakable Thread._


	20. 19

“In Prague, you said,” grumbled Donegan. “Predict the unpredictable skeleton detective, you said.”

“Shut up, Donegan.”

“We’ve been here for _hours_.”

“He’ll be here,” Gracious insisted, squinting out the window toward the Old New Synagogue. “It’s the only place he could be considering.”

“Really?”

“Well, no,” Gracious admitted. “There’s probably any number of places he _could_ have gone, but this is the most likely. He’ll be here.”

They passed a few moments in silence, watching the synagogue from their rented car’s front seats. There wasn’t much traffic, because the synagogue wasn’t open to the public, but that should have meant anyone approaching the doors would be obvious. Which they had been. It was just that none of them had been Skulduggery.

“I think you’re wrong,” said Donegan after a moment. “I think he hasn’t come here at all. I think—wait, isn’t that him?”

There was a figure striding from the doors as if he owned them, a thin figure in a well-tailored suit, a hat, and with a scarf and sunglasses completely obscuring his face even though it was overcast.

“I think the thing that really gives it away is the curly wig,” said Gracious, gunning the engine and pulling away from the curb to pull up right in front of Skulduggery. The figure stopped on the sidewalk and watched them as Donegan rolled down the window and waved.

“Need a lift?” he asked.

“What are you doing here?” Skulduggery asked.

“Following you,” Donegan said.

“How did you know I was here?”

Donegan shrugged. “Impeccable logic and talent at detective-work, obviously.”

“ _Whose_ impeccable logic and talent at detective-work?” Gracious objected as Skulduggery came around and opened his door.

“You rang someone, didn’t you?” he asked. “I’ll drive.”

Gracious’s grip on the steering-wheel tightened. “No. I’m driving. I rented this car, with _my_ money, and _I’m_ the one who followed you, so _I’m_ driving. Besides, the person who’s being guarded is the person who’s supposed to get in the back.”

Skulduggery stood there and looked at him for a long moment. At least, Gracious assumed he was looking, and so glared back stubbornly, and after a moment Skulduggery sighed and got into the back. Gracious pulled his door closed.

“How did you know I was here?” Skulduggery asked again, buckling himself in.

“Read the book over your shoulder,” Gracious said.

“You couldn’t have had time for that.”

“Are you kidding? My family was Catholic. Do you _know_ how fast you had to read certain banned materials if you wanted to get to the good parts in time to get any fun out of them?”

“I’m learning sides of you I never knew existed, O’Callaghan,” Donegan said.

“You say that as if you didn’t know I collect relevant magazines.”

“No, I just never thought you’d rush through enjoying them. Where’s the fun in that?”

“I was young and ignorant,” Gracious said with a shrug. “So what did we find in the synagogue?”

“ _We_ found absolutely nothing,” said Skulduggery. “ _I_ found information on the Golem of Prague.”

“That’s why you knew he was here?” Donegan demanded. “The Golem? What does the Golem have to do with anything? Didn’t I already say we’re not going to hunt the Golem, Gracious?”

“But that was ages ago,” Gracious whined, and then checked himself. “And it’s not relevant anyway. That smith guy wrote a note in that book he was reading, about how some blacksmith way back when tried to forge a suit of armour as an object.”

“This was a good two thousand years ago, and change,” Skulduggery said. “The book was written in Ancient Greek. But from Athanasius’s note, something went wrong in the forging—there was some crucial element missing. The armour killed its owner and went on a rampage, and disappeared.”

He reached into his pocket and unfolded a postcard, and showed it to them. Gracious risked glancing at it. “Looks like the sketch in the book.”

“I thought so too.” Skulduggery folded the sketch and put it away again. “In the story about the Golem of Prague, the Golem was supposedly forged by a rabbi as a defence mechanism in the seventeenth century, but it then turned on him. What’s to say the person trying to control it wasn’t a priest of a different kind?”

“You mean a necromancer,” Donegan said.

“No one was ever able to find the Golem, and the Ottoman Temple rejected any offers of international aid to defeat it.”

“So we’re going back to the Temple?” Gracious asked. “Good. That means I can get out of this roundabout.”

“You just missed the turn,” Skulduggery said.

“Did I? Bugger.”

He made one more rotation, to the irritated blaring of horns, and then put on his indicator and pulled smoothly out into the correct lane.

 

When they reached the Temple, the doorman glared but said nothing as he let them in. Gracious gave him a hat he’d bought at the Acropolis. “Here. Present. The sun won’t kill you, I promise.”

The hat came sailing after him as he hurried after Donegan and Skulduggery into the Temple. “Are we sure this is a good idea?” he asked. “The last Temple we walked into tried to have us thrown into a dungeon. Maybe we should sneak in.”

“Do you want to end up in a coffin full of rats?” Donegan asked.

Gracious shuddered. “No, not really. The direct approach it is.”

The very first necromancer they met eyed them warily, but took them to a small room off the memorial where the same man who had talked to them earlier was waiting. Gracious looked around. It was your basic office. Your basic, very small, office.

“Nice digs,” he said.

The man gave him a look, and then turned his attention to Skulduggery. “Why are you here?” he demanded, rising to his feet. “You should be hunting the armour.”

“We are,” said Skulduggery, “but we need answers first.”

“What answers?”

“Where’s the Golem?”

The man, Gracious thought, was pretty good. He didn’t even flinch at the question. His eyes narrowed, though. “Perhaps destroyed. Perhaps a museum. How would I know?”

“What’s your name?” Gracious asked before Skulduggery could say anything else.

The man frowned, still tense and still defensive, but now a little bit puzzled. “Bohumír Dušek.”

“Okay.” Gracious nodded. “I’m not even going to try to pronounce that. Can I call you Boris instead?”

“You are wasting all our time.”

“I don’t think so,” said Skulduggery. “We went to the Greek Temple and we found some very interesting things. For instance, the fact that Vile’s armour is not, in fact, the first necromantic armour that’s ever been forged.” Bohumír’s eyes flickered. Skulduggery went on. “According to the notes we read in Athens, this first piece of armour was physically perfect but magically lacking some vital ingredients to make it a proper necromantic object. It murdered its owner and escaped, and no one heard from it since. Ostensibly.”

For a long moment Bohumír looked impassively at him.

“Come on,” Gracious cajoled. “What’s the worst that could happen if you told us? I mean, besides us telling everyone. But everyone knows about Vile’s armour and everyone hates necromancers anyway, so what’s going to change except that we’ll know more about how to fight Vile’s armour?”

“Gracious,” Donegan said, “we have got to work on your diplomacy.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to be for.”

Bohumír and Skulduggery stared at one another, but then Bohumír sat down. “We know very little about the forging of the first armour,” he said. “In fact, our Temple did not even know it existed until the seventeenth century.”

“The legend goes that a rabbi forged the armour to protect Jews,” Skulduggery said, and Bohumír shook his head.

“The tale of the Golem begins before that story. In the middle of the century, there was a theft in the Greek Temple.”

“What was stolen?” Skulduggery asked.

“An object,” said Bohumír. “A rod of some kind, and some notes on blacksmithing. At the time, mortal conflicts made travel across Europe sufficiently difficult that the High Priest requested our help to intercept the thief. We divined his route as passing through Prague, so we intended to apprehend him here.”

“I don’t like that word,” said Gracious. “‘Intended’. It makes it sound like bad, unexpected things are about to happen.”

Bohumír looked at him. “We do not know whether he found the Golem first, or the mortal rabbi did,” he said. “Perhaps the thief activated the Golem intending to use it as a bodyguard. Perhaps he merely sold the rod to the rabbi intending for us to be distracted by securing it. Whatever his motive, a mortal rabbi came into possession of the rod and the activated Golem, and we were forced to focus our efforts on recovering them while the thief escaped.”

“How did he manage to rob a Temple alone?” Skulduggery asked.

Bohumír shook his head. “We suspected that he wasn’t alone. At least, he wasn’t alone by the time he arrived in Prague. He had a son, a journeyman smith, who helped to smuggle him out of the city.”

Skulduggery went very still, which was a feat since he was a skeleton and, therefore, very still to begin with. “What was this son’s name?”

“Smithaz,” said Bohumír. “We kept him under watch. We suspected he used his travels as a ruse to be in position to help his father, and when we were distracted with the Golem they disappeared.”

There was silence while Gracious looked at Skulduggery, expecting the skeleton to comment. The moment stretched on, and Skulduggery said nothing.

“And what about those notes you mentioned?” Donegan asked at last. “The ones about smithing.”

“They were never recovered.”

“So what you’re saying is that, somewhere out there, there is, or at least was, a blacksmith with notes on how to make necromantic armour?” Bohumír looked at him coldly, and Donegan raised his hands. “I’m just _asking_. How many of the other Temples know about this?”

“None of them,” said Bohumír, “save a handful of the Greek clerics. We sent people to search, but it would have been bad politics to admit to the Temples at large that we could not recover some of our most secret knowledge, and this was not long before Mevolent declared war. Any chance we had of finding Smithaz and his thieving father were lost once the war began.”

“Do you know what this means?” Donegan asked, rounding suddenly on Gracious.

“I think our reputations just got besmirched,” Gracious said. “Successfully robbing a fortress Temple? It’s a good thing it didn’t get out, or we’d have to overcome even higher expectations.”

“I mean about the armour.”

Gracious stared at him blankly. Donegan stared back. “What?” Gracious asked after a moment. “I’ve done my thinking for today. You can’t possibly expect me to do any _more_. Spell it out for me.”

“It means,” Donegan said, “that whoever Vile is probably got his armour from this Smithaz person.”

Gracious’s eyes widened. “Ohh. So?”

Donegan shrugged. “I don’t know, I just thought it was interesting.” He turned to Bohumír. “So where’s the armour now? The first armour, I mean?”

“That is privileged information.”

“No,” said Gracious, “really. You want us to pursue and stop a sentient suit of armour, but you’re refusing to let us study the only other sentient suit of armour in history? You’ve already basically confessed. What worse could happen if you showed us the armour and the rod?”

“You had to ask,” Donegan muttered. “We’re probably going to get squished on the end of the Golem’s fist now.”

“Not if we have the rod.” Gracious frowned. “Actually, what’s with that rod? I don’t remember seeing it in Athan-what’s-it’s book.”

“Maybe we can ask the Golem,” Donegan said.

“Oh, because that’s any more intelligent than asking what the worst that could happen is.”

“There’s _nothing_ intelligent about going down to study a sentient suit of armour which has probably been locked up for the better part of four centuries and is therefore, most likely, very very bored.”

“At least it would make a good book,” Gracious mused, and rapped on Bohumír’s desk with his knuckles. “Come on, give us a peek. I promise we won’t even look up its skirt.”

For a long moment Bohumír stared at them with a flat expression. Then he abruptly rose and came around the desk, and moved toward the door. “Follow me.”

For the first time in minutes Skulduggery stirred, reaching up to adjust his hat before following. Gracious and Donegan trailed after, shoving each other to get through the door first. Bohumír led them deeper into the Temple, past doors and passages, and into areas that were dusty and broken.

“You need a better cleaning service,” Gracious muttered, and then sneezed.

“These sections of the Temple haven’t been used in centuries,” said Bohumír without looking. His voice was weirdly hollow, as if it meant to echo but was dulled by the volume of the dust and cobwebs and broken stone. “Once they were used every day, as living-quarters and study areas.”

“What happened?”

“Vile happened,” said Bohumír simply, and led them down some broad stone steps to a metal door. Gracious shivered and rubbed his arms. Bohumír took a key from under his robes and unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Gracious expected it to groan with rust, but even though these passages were unused someone apparently kept the door in good condition. “It’s down there,” Bohumír said. “The rod should be nearby. Look for it yourself.”

“You’re not coming in with us?” Donegan asked. Bohumír looked at him coldly.

“I was there the day we captured it,” he said, “and I was there the day Vile assaulted our Temple. I have no desire to look upon the face of a true monster a third time.”

Skulduggery didn’t say anything. He didn’t look around. He just strode through the door, clicking his fingers and holding the flames high so they could see. Exchanging glances, Gracious and Donegan followed him in, and Bohumír closed the door behind them. They heard the clunk as he locked it.

“Get the impression he doesn’t expect us to come out?” Gracious asked Donegan.

“Or _want_ us to,” Donegan pointed out, glancing around the small stone room. It was cold and dusty and cobwebbed, enough that most of the items looked like shapeless grey bundles on their shelves. No armour was immediately visible. “Okay. We’re looking for a rod. What kind of rod?”

“A stick-looking rod, I imagine,” Gracious said, pulling out a flashlight and turning it on. Skulduggery had moved further into the room, so Gracious picked a flanking direction and started prodding around the shelves on his side of the room.

“It’s probably metal, like the armour,” said Donegan, moving off in the opposite direction. “It might even be a channeller.”

“Why didn’t we ever try to make channelling objects?” Gracious wondered. “They’d be useful, especially if we could make one that holds fire charges.”

“I think it has something to do with the fact that the first time you tried, you almost lost your face. And then I had to listen to you whining through the bandages.”

“Oh, yeah.” Gracious moved down the wall, reaching out to pat the walls in case there was a secret passage. In the centre of the wall was a weird shadow, and when he reached out to touch it he felt it crumble under his hands. He jumped back as it sent up billows of dust, but sucked in a breath before he could stop and wound up coughing explosively, over and over.

He felt a gust of air wash over him, enough to clear the area so he could breathe, and fumbled for his water bottle. He took a long draught and looked up to see Skulduggery examining an alcove in front of him. An alcove, Gracious realised, that had been behind a wooden door so old that it dissolved the moment Gracious touched it. And inside that alcove was a suit of armour.

“I found the rod,” Donegan called.

“I found the armour,” Gracious called back, his voice raspy and catching from the dust.

“Show-off.”

Gracious heard Donegan’s footsteps and then the Englishman was beside him, watching silently as Skulduggery stood before the armour and stared at it. It was plate armour, but it was so rusted over that it looked like clay, and the cuirass and the skirt seemed to segue into each other thanks to the dust and cobwebs. The helmet covered the whole head, except for an opening for the mouth and a slit for the eyes. On its forehead was a semi-visible etching.

“You know,” Gracious mused, “it’s smaller than I imagined.”

“Someone _was_ meant to wear it,” Donegan pointed out. “It can’t be too big, or it wouldn’t fit.”

“And they say size matters. Where’s the rod?” Donegan held up a slim shaft of metal. It looked like a metal pipe, except that there were etchings on one end. “How does it work?”

“I’m buggered if I know,” Donegan said with a shrug.

“Give it to me,” said Skulduggery without looking around, but holding out his hand. Donegan hesitated, and then handed him the rod. Skulduggery glanced around and found some strip of cloth that hadn’t quite decided to turn to dust yet, and reached up to rub the webs off the armour’s forehead. Sigils came into view, but they were lopsided in the space, as if the writer had left room for something to be added before them.

Skulduggery clicked his fingers and made the cloth burst into flames, and waited until it had burned out before using its ashes to write a sigil in front of the rest. The sigils glowed and the Golem stirred with grinding metal and sheets of falling dust, and Gracious felt he couldn’t be the least bit blamed for jumping back. He felt better by the fact that Donegan had too.

The Golem took a heavy step out of its alcove, and its body—could it be said to have a body?—rattled. Gracious could see where dirt and clay and the detritus of centuries fell out from the cracks in its joints. Skulduggery took a step back and looked up at it, holding the rod loosely by his side.

“Hello,” he said.

The Golem’s head moved. Gracious was fairly sure it was looking at the skeleton, but it was hard to tell, given that its eyes were just a slit.

 “I don’t suppose you’re able to talk?” Skulduggery asked. The Golem took another step. Gracious backed away. So did Donegan. Skulduggery didn’t. “May I take that as a ‘no’?”

“Maybe it knows sign language,” Gracious said, and laughed nervously. “I mean, the stories never _actually_ said the Golem talks, right?”

“Maybe it needs someone inside it,” Donegan suggested.

“Bane, if you want to seduce the dusty, rusty armour, be my guest.” The Golem’s head turned ponderously to look at him and the shadows on the wall behind it rustled, and Gracious mustered a smile. “Not that it’s your fault. I mean, you look remarkably good and, uh, _intact_ , for a suit of armour that’s three thousand years old. Two. Two thousand. Is it an insult to call a suit of armour old?”

“I don’t know,” said Donegan, “but I’d really appreciate it if you’d shut up right now.”

The shadows were _definitely_ moving. Gracious looked nervously behind him to see they had covered the door. They were flocking overhead, this way and that, rushing across the floor in a fashion that made Gracious yelp and jump like a rat had run over his toes. (He was pretty sure one had.)

“Is it playing with us, or working the kinks out of its magical muscles?” he whispered to Donegan.

“I don’t know,” Donegan whispered back. “I like to think it’s just stretching.”

“I have your rod,” Skulduggery said to the Golem, and lifted it.

“What are you going to do, spank it?” Donegan demanded.

“Kinky,” Gracious muttered.

Skulduggery ignored them both. It was probably just as well. The Golem was ignoring them too, and its shadows had settled, and all its attention seemed to be focussed on the rod. “I don’t actually know how it’s relevant,” he said, “since my original information made no mention of a rod, but I’m guessing it was a secondary effort to control you. Instead of relying solely on magic, they created a control object and tied it into the sigils on your head. Am I right?”

The Golem’s attention hadn’t wavered from the rod. It reached out with one gauntlet, a very big gauntlet with rusty fingers, but Skulduggery moved the rod out of reach.

“I want information,” he said. “I want to know how you were created, and what the necromancers did to try and control you.”

“Um, Skulduggery—” Donegan began, glancing around at the gathering shadows.

“It can’t exactly _talk_ ,” Gracious finished.

The shadows shot out and wrapped around Skulduggery’s limbs, and yanked him forward. He dropped the rod. The Golem’s cuirass opened, and Gracious was fairly sure he saw a terrified rat leap out just before the Golem tried to drag Skulduggery in. Then both he and Donegan leapt forward, Donegan with energy in his hands and Gracious to snatch up the rod.

“Wait!” Skulduggery said sharply over the sound of roaring shadows.

“You’re about to be sucked in by a sentient suit of armour,” Donegan shouted, raising his hands to fire a beam at some of the shadows that tried to yank him back. “I think we’re past waiting!”

“ _Wait_.”

Gracious ducked a streamer of shadows and lunged, waving the rod like a lunatic. He was aiming for the sigil Skulduggery had written on the golem’s head, but the shadows parried and picked him up and threw him across the room. He hit shelving and it crumbled under him, and he hit the stone floor in the middle of a cloud of dust, coughing wildly. He got to his feet, still clutching the rod, and looked past the shadows. Skulduggery’s hands were outstretched and the backlash of air as he resisted being eaten made everything nearby slide off their shelves and crash to the floor. Donegan was trying to keep the lunging shadows at bay without any cover, dancing this way and that.

Gracious set himself grimly, rod in one hand, and charged. A shadow tried to trip him and he leapt over it, and ducked under another, dodging and weaving the shadows Donegan missed. Gracious slid under Skulduggery’s legs and leapt to his feet, and aimed the rod toward the Golem’s neck. A shadow parried it away, but his other hand had already uncapped his bottle and he threw water on the Golem’s forehead.

The ashy sigil melted off and the glow in the other sigils faded, and the shadows all dissolved into natural darkness as suddenly as if someone had turned on a flashlight in the middle of the night. Skulduggery fell and hit the floor with a grunt. Gracious looked down at the rod in his hands.

“So much for a control item,” he said, and tossed it away, and turned.

Skulduggery was getting to his feet. “You should have waited,” he said.

“Waited?” Donegan echoed. “It was about to eat you. Or whatever the non-living equivalent is. Suck out your magic, maybe.”

“I could see its memories,” Skulduggery said. “It was trying to use me, but I could use it in turn.”

Gracious crossed his arms. “And what would have happened if you’d lost concentration and it had sucked you in like the other one did your buddy Wreath? Face it, Skulduggery, I saved your bony arse, and now it’s time for us to go. Just please tell me you figured out good things.”

Skulduggery looked at him, dusting himself off. “Good things?” he asked. “No. Not good things. But a lot of things now make more sense than they did.”

“Like what?” Donegan asked, but Skulduggery didn’t answer. He just went to the door and knocked, and waited there unspeaking until it had been opened.


	21. 20

“In other aspects of Shaktism, Kali-ka is seen only as one aspect of a greater goddess,” Sati said. Dexter tried to pay attention, but he was busy holding the form she had directed him into. Teaching while distracting? Really? He had hoped that the religious vagueness had been flukes. The only consolation about this was that Sati was, also, doing some forms, very slowly and very controlled. Given the fact she was wearing almost nothing, it was a distraction in itself.

The fact that she knew these forms better than he did also didn’t help. Dexter wished Rover was there. Rover would have been able to pull them off just fine. Dexter was very limber, all things considered, but he was starting to see the difference between limber and _limber_.

“As that goddess is invariably but one side of a greater whole to Shiva, Kali is by most people considered but a lesser aspect. They have forgotten what her name means. Do you know what her name means, Vex?”

He knew the answer to this one. He also knew there were no penalties if he got it wrong, because she had asked before. The only penalty was if he wasn’t paying attention. He’d learned that the hard way when he had chosen to ignore her even, lilting narrative and she had driven him for hours and hours past when they usually stopped. Until he could actually answer.

He also knew from experience that if all he said was ‘yes’, she would prod him until he proved it.

“Black,” he said, tensely because he was concentrating on not falling over. “Death. Time.”

“Those are translations,” said Sati, changing her pose with excruciating slowness. Dexter should know, because he had to mirror it, inch by inch. His muscles were on fire. “But what does it _mean_?”

She had asked him this for three days. Every time, he gave her a different answer. He was fairly certain she hadn’t been happy with any of them, which was why she kept asking. The problem was that he didn’t have a clue what she wanted to hear, and he was fast losing patience with her insistence that he ought to know. He was a Dead Man, not some kind of envoy of a death goddess, no matter how many people during the war might disagree.

“Right now,” he said, his voice strained, “I’m thinking it means something to do with cruel and unusual punishment.”

Sati snapped back to parade rest so fast that Dexter almost fell over trying to mimic it. His legs burned and his knees shook, but he managed to keep his feet. He looked up, expecting Sati to laugh, because she had a fondness for laughing which reminded him of Larrikin. Except she wasn’t laughing this time. She stood still and regal, alien in the dim light with her dark skin and unmoving posture.

“You’re mocking me,” she said.

Dexter blinked and sighed, and debated the merits of sitting down before rejecting the idea. If he sat down, he would find it difficult to get up again. “I’m sorry,” he said, trying to swallow his impatience. “I mock everyone. It’s a bad habit. Although not as bad a habit as some of the others have.”

She didn’t move or speak, and on this occasion Dexter was willing to let the silence stretch, at least until the ache in his body had subsided to a dull burn. The problem after that was it meant he needed to either sit down or move, and couldn’t. Finally he asked, “Are we going to continue?”

He’d been trying to avoid insulting her. He hadn’t expected her to ask bluntly, “Why are you here?”

Dexter frowned. “You know why I’m here.”

Sati moved, stepping around him in the same circle as their dance usually took. “I know your mission. Your mission means nothing. Missions are the actions we undertake in an attempt to define the world around us to our own specifications. Why are _you_ here?”

If he thought about it, Dexter could see the thin hairs being split, but he had no idea what they meant except that it brought to mind his outburst on the bluff the other night. Without meaning to, he tensed. “I was the only one willing and able.”

“More excuses,” Sati said.

“What do you want me to say?” Dexter demanded. “You know I won’t tell you what I’m withholding, and you think I’m here to save the world. What more do you want?”

“ _I_ know why you’re here,” said Sati, “and what you need. But those things can’t be given to a man who doesn’t know what _he_ wants. Why are you here, Vex? You stand here, impatient with my methods but greedy for my knowledge, and you expect me to hand you everything you want.”

“I have to earn it,” he snapped. “I know.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of it.”

“Then tell me what I have to do!”

She held out her hands, not for him to take but in a welcoming initial step. “Dance with me.”

Dexter bit back his explosion and took a deep breath. “Why?” he asked. “What does dancing have to do with anything, let alone with this?”

“You mocked me,” said Sati. “What does your mirth have to do with anything?”

“It’s just a habit.”

She looked at him for a very long moment. “If you really believe that, then you’re more ignorant and far worthier of pity than I thought.”

Sati turned and strode toward the door, and a fission of energy ran through Dexter. He felt like he was on the edge of a cliff, and he’d just made the final fatal misstep. “Wait,” he said urgently, stepping forward. “I’m not ready to give up on this yet. If you want me to dance, I’ll dance.”

She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder He couldn’t see her expression in the darkness, but her voice was gentle, and a little bit sad. “You’re missing the point,” she said. “You’ve been missing the point all along, because you’re too trapped by your perspective. Most people are. You’re willing to dance, Vex, I know. It’s just that sometimes, being _willing_ to dance isn’t enough.”

Then she walked out the door and was gone, and Dexter stood in the middle of the room, unsure exactly what he ought to be feeling.

 

“She’s waiting for me to figure things out on my own,” Dexter said, too full of restless energy to sit down even though his limbs were aching. Annunziata sat in the armchair by the bookcase, a book open on her lap, but she was watching Dexter. “The only trouble is, if she’s given me any clues I can’t see what they are. Why do religious people always have to be so smoke and mirrors? No offence.”

“None taken,” Annunziata said calmly. “The unfaithful do, after all, have a habit of being insultingly ignorant about what is involved with religion.”

In spite of everything, Dexter laughed. Then he sighed and gripped the back of the settee, torn between sitting and not. If he sat he wouldn’t get up again. Then again, what did he need to get up for? He moved around the couch and flopped down on his back, and groaned with relief.

“Go on, then,” he said, covering his eyes with his arm. “What is this ignorant atheist missing?”

“I’m surprised you have to ask. Your friend Hopeless is a man of faith.”

Dexter blinked and rolled over to look at her. “You say that like you’ve met him.”

“I have,” said Annunziata. “He came to the See a few decades ago. We recognised him from his description and kept a guard on him, but it quickly became clear he had not come to the See for the Temple.” She lifted her eyebrow. If not for the Temple, there was only one reason for anyone to go to the See, and it was one no sorcerer would have. Unless they were Hopeless. Hopeless was the only sorcerer Dexter had heard of who believed in God. It was one of the man’s many contradictions —that he could act omniscient, and still be humble enough to accept the existence of an Almighty.

“I and some others were watching him when he recognised us as necromancers,” Annunziata continued. “He came over to say good evening.”

“He’s observant like that.” So that was how Hopeless had known where the Italian Temple was. “What does Hopeless have to do with all this?”

“He deals in ‘smoke and mirrors’, does he not?”

Dexter opened his mouth to say ‘of course not’ and then stopped with a blink. The fact was, Hopeless _did_. It was just that most of the time, those smoke and mirrors were directed at everyone other than the Dead Men. The Dead Men were allowed to see behind the curtain, were allowed to come visit, had long since started being stage-hands.

It wasn’t about Hopeless withholding information when he felt he had to, which was fair. Most of the time, he was open about what he was hiding—again, usually only to the Dead Men. It was a necessity of maintaining his secret. And it wasn’t about his spying, or his method of spying, because the Dead Men had known since each of them joined the unit what Hopeless could do.

No. All those smoke and mirrors were things relating to himself, and he had never hesitated in letting the Dead Men see that they were what they were.

The thing was that he’d spent so long being open about himself to them that it hadn’t even occurred to Dexter that Hopeless might still be pulling strings. Except that he was, wasn’t he? He always was. Like with Skulduggery, and Lord Vile. Erskine had refused to come to the Sanctuary not because of Skulduggery, but because of Hopeless. How many times had Hopeless sat one of them down and neatly prodded them into talking even if they hadn’t planned to beforehand? How many times had he nudged them into realisations?

All the time, that was how many times. He never stopped. It was a product of having to navigate everyone else’s minds, always knowing where their issues lay.

Annunziata had fallen silent, but Dexter didn’t mind. He had things to think about. He rolled onto his back and put his arms behind his head, and stretched out on the settee.

Hopeless’s smoke and mirrors involved keeping things about a person from them until _they_ could figure it. Dexter couldn’t remember who’d asked; he seemed to recall Rover complaining about it being unfair that Hopeless was keeping their own secrets from them. But Dexter remembered Hopeless saying that no realisation was ever as grounding as one made on your own.

Annunziata was right. Hopeless _was_ a man of faith, like Sati was a woman of faith. Dexter wished Hopeless were there; he would already know what Sati wanted, without having to read her mind.

But he wasn’t, so it was up to Dexter to figure out just what he was missing. Alone. Without another Dead Man around to help him figure it out.

Except that he wasn’t alone. He had Annunziata.

“Do you mind if I talk?” he asked abruptly. “You don’t even have to listen. I just need to talk. I’m not used to not having someone to talk at. Or to talk at me.”

Either he had spent far too long depending on Larrikin’s chatter, or he’d absorbed some of Erskine’s dislike for silence. Probably it was some of both.

“No,” Annunziata said in that faintly absent tone which indicated she had gone back to reading.

Dexter exhaled. “Right. Well, Hopeless has this incredibly annoying habit of refusing to tell you things you already know about yourself. Or don’t know about yourself. That’s what Sati is doing. I didn’t realise it, because, well.” He shrugged. “Because no one does it except him. The question is, what questions aren’t I asking that would help me figure out what she knows that I don’t?”

Annunziata said nothing. Dexter felt absurdly disappointed by that fact, because any one of the Dead Men would have answered, even if it was to say something irrelevant and irreverent.

 _“We’re not there and you’re missing our rapier wit,”_ he heard Rover say. _“What’re you going to do?”_

 _Answer myself for you,_ Dexter replied internally. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time one of them had held a mental conversation with themselves, using the others, just for Hopeless sake. The only difference was that this time he was saying it out loud. It was even stranger than they usually were, but—who was he kidding? Talking aloud while pretending to be someone else didn’t even rate a ding on the bell of Dead Man strangeness.

“That’s a long list,” he answered himself, and then muttered, “Not helpful, Ravel, thank you.”

_“You’re welcome.”_

“She said I was missing the point,” Dexter said. “That I was too trapped by my perspective.”

 _“So change your perspective, duh,”_ said Saracen. _“Would you like it to be high or would you like it to be low? I’m easy.”_

“Yes, Rue, you are,” Dexter mumbled. “Change my perspective. To what?”

_“Oh, come now, this is easy.”_

“Shut up, Skulduggery. Okay, change my perspective to Sati’s. Which is a mite difficult when I can’t be completely sure of her motives or reasoning, but hey, that’s the point of this little exercise. Sati’s perspective is—”

_“That of a really hot and darkly tanned lady.”_

“Accurate, but unhelpful, Larrikin. Sati’s perspective is that I’m ignorant. And, apparently, that dancing is an action for all occasions.”

_“Sounds like sex.”_

“Pretty sure I don’t want the list of ways it is.” Dexter frowned. “Actually, I do. But not for sex, for dancing. How is dancing an action for all occasions? Hopeless, help me out here.”

_“Why? You’re doing so well on your own.”_

“I hate you. Also, you’re not even real and you’re still refusing to help me. Typical.”

_“You’ve already answered your own question.”_

“Have I? That was intelligent of me. What did I say?”

_“Run through it again.”_

“I need a new perspective, Sati’s perspective, Sati’s perspective on dancing, dancing as an action for all occasions ... I still don’t get it.”

_“Then run through it again.”_

“I don’t know how you can be so annoying even when you’re not here. I need a new perspective, I need Sati’s perspective, I need Sati’s perspective on dancing, her perspective on dancing as an action for all occasions ... action. For all occasions.” Dexter sat up in spite of his complaining body. It wasn’t enough, so he got to his feet and moved around the settee, half rigid with excited adrenaline and half with his hands in motion just like Rover would do.

“Ow. Dancing is an action. She said when I first spoke to her that it’s important to Kali. In joy, in victory, in reverence. She said it’s for an audience or a partner, but not something to do alone. Alright. I have no idea what that means. What does that mean?”

_“Hey, it takes two to tango.”_

“Thanks, Rover.”

 _“What? It’s true. It takes two to tango. That applies to dance_ and _sex. Sometimes, you can even have an orgy.”_

Dexter stopped facing the wall and let his hands droop. “Orgies,” he murmured. “Dead Men orgies. Dead Men following Kali’s way. Dead Men embracing death. But life is about life, and making life about death is—”

_“I believe you used the word ‘silly’.”_

“—silly, yes, thank you, Shudder, except that we do it all the time, don’t we?”

_“I don’t. I’m living a perfectly happy life, when I’m not being dragged off on errands for my friends.”_

“Except you don’t, Ghastly, because you sit in your little shop and hide away, and try to pretend the war didn’t exist.” Dexter raised his hands and ran his fingers through his hair and laughed, torn between bitterness and a wondering kind of realisation. “The war exists. It exists in all of us. Remember when it ended? Remember how we were all set adrift, with no idea what to do with ourselves? Remember the day Larrikin tricked us all back together, and suddenly it felt as if we had lives to live all over again? We were never as alive as when we fought that war.”

_“So what does Kali mean, Dex?”_

“Black,” Dexter murmured, and his hands dropped.

_“Our armour was black.”_

“Death.”

_“They did call us Dead Men.”_

“Time.”

_“There’s no such thing as time in death. Well, not unless you’re Skulduggery, anyway.”_

“Which means that the only way Kali can represent time,” Dexter said, “if she represents life as well. Life _and_ death. It’s a cycle. It’s ... change.” He frowned. “Where did I hear that? Sati didn’t say that.”

“I did,” said Annunziata, and Dexter whirled around. Annunziata was watching him, her hands flat on her closed book. “Did you know you pretend to be your friends while brainstorming?”

She sounded amused and curious at once, and Dexter managed a rueful smile. “Believe it or not, I don’t do this very often. Mostly because they’re usually there to talk to me in person.”

“Oh? Do you frequently have orgies in person as well?”

The amusement definitely overtook the curiosity, and Dexter laughed. “Only the kind without sex.”

Something in Annunziata’s eyes changed, a faint crease which wasn’t actually a smile but made it look like she was wearing one anyway. “To which conclusion did they help you come?”

“Why I’m here,” said Dexter, and sat back on the couch, tired but relieved. “And what I’m missing, and why dancing is so important. Sati said sometimes being willing to dance isn’t enough.”

“But you are willing _and_ learning,” Annunziata pointed out. “Is that not enough?”

He couldn’t stay seated. Dexter got to his feet, pacing the floor. “No,” he said. “No, it isn’t. You can be willing to act, and you can _try_ to act, but acting without thinking or knowing _why_ is just a _re_ action. It doesn’t change anything. It means you’re reacting to change. It’s a system of checks and balances. A cycle.”

“I thought we were talking about dancing.”

“Dancing is just a euphemism for living.”

“Living for a goddess of death?”

“Exactly.” Dexter looked down and realised he’d been pacing in a circle all this time, a circle like the dance-steps took them. He shook his head. “Except that none of this tells me how we’re meant to stop the armour. It just tells me why I’m here.”

“Perhaps you should ask yourself why knowing why you’re here will help you stop the armour.”

Dexter stopped and opened his mouth, and then closed it again, frowning. “I’m not sure yet,” he said finally. “But I feel like I’m close. I just need a little more _time_.”

Like Saracen. Like Kali. Dexter felt a flicker of an ironic grin cross his face, and turned to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going dancing,” he said, and left the room.


	22. 21

_Solomon watched the shadows dance on the walls, flickering back and forward and back again in an endless motion. If they’d had sound, they would have made a noise like the ocean whispering. Shadows didn’t have noise. They left very little trace of their existence, once they were gone. It was one of the reasons he found them beautiful. Quiet, deadly, adaptable._

_And present. Always present, even when he wasn’t controlling them, even when he wasn’t letting their cool, soothing power rush through his veins._

_“Acolyte Wreath.”_

_The shadows dissolved suddenly and Solomon tamped down on the surge of irritation, and turned, feeling the tired heaviness in his limbs. He hadn’t quite got his old stamina back. The healers said it might not happen for a while. Even still, he trained._

_“Yes?”_

_The man at the door to the training room wasn’t an acolyte or a cleric. Solomon had never bothered to learn his name, but he was a necromancer who had been shunted sideways, into a menial role within the Temple. He wore a slight curl in his lip. Solomon ignored it. The man wasn’t the first._

_“There’s someone at the door for you.”_

_Someone at the—Solomon felt himself go rigid, and didn’t stop it. Coldness of a very different kind to his magic spread through his limbs, and he let that coldness into his face, into his expression, turn it stony. The other necromancer looked startled. Solomon rose. “I’d better go and see him, then.”_

_Very few people ever bothered to come to the Temple door, unless they were necromancers themselves. Only one person ever came to the door for Solomon. That alone had ruined Solomon’s reputation—what he’d had of one, as a thirteen-year-old brought in from outside the Temple. Now he was nearly nineteen, and alternately considered a liability and a revolutionary. After all, who would come to the door for a mere acolyte?_

_Skulduggery Pleasant, of course._

_Solomon gripped his cane and walked through the halls, and for once didn’t feel the cold. It was always cold, underground. Before he had endured it like every other acolyte. Now Master Crow had insisted he wear something warmer under his robes. He was still recovering, she had said. There was no point in risking pneumonia._

_He hadn’t argued. He had spent the last five weeks feeling like he would never be warm again._

_Solomon came to the door and stepped out, and felt the doorman close it behind him. Skulduggery was leaning back against an outcrop of rock by the entrance, and turned to face him with an air of fake surprise. “Ah, Solomon, there you are. I was beginning to think you’ve moved to the New World. Whatever has the Temple had you doing all this time?”_

_The anger came suddenly, but not unexpected. Not trusting himself to speak, Solomon turned and moved higher up on the bluff. There was a surprised pause, but he heard Skulduggery follow._

_“What’s this, then?” Skulduggery asked behind him, sounding bemused and intrigued at once. “Do you have a new mystery? Or, perhaps, a gift? I do enjoy gifts.” No real curiosity, no real worry. Just confidence, and teasing, and selfishness._

“One of the things you’ll notice is how much you’ve changed just by being around him. You won’t even know it at first. Then, one day, you’ll look around and realise you’ve given him everything and he’s left you with nothing.”

_Solomon didn’t answer until they reached a flat jutting rock, higher over the Temple, enough to see the sea on the horizon. Then he turned and braced the tip of his cane on the ground, and looked Skulduggery in the eye as he said, “I’ve decided to stay with the Temple.”_

_Skulduggery went still and his puzzled expression faded. After a pause he said, “May I ask why?”_

_“I’ve realised it’s the best place to be.”_

_“The best place—” Skulduggery frowned. “What_ did _they have you doing for the past month?”_

_“They didn’t have me doing anything,” said Solomon said shortly, and the words were an opening in the dam of emotion that had been building in him for the last month. “I’ve spent the last two weeks in recovery, and the three weeks before that rotting in a dank cellar in Dublin.”_

_His last words came out as a lash, an accusation, because that was what they were._

“He’s not just going to leave me here.”

“I used to think the same. Then one day he was gone, and he never came back. And that wasn’t even the first time, you know. Whenever I needed him the most, he was never there.”

_“Where?” Skulduggery asked abruptly. Solomon snorted and turned away._

_“What does it matter? I escaped.”_

_“How?”_

_Solomon glanced over. Skulduggery’s expression was completely blank. There should have been emotion on it. Concern. Solomon would have accepted concern. Concern would have meant Skulduggery cared. Instead, he was simply ... blank._

_“How do you think?” Solomon demanded, jerking his hand up and catching his cane by the shaft, and drawing all the nearest shadows in around them like a flurry of dark birds. He released them a moment later, and even that brief show of power made him feel breathless and weak. “He didn’t feed me. He barely left me enough water to survive each day, and not even that.”_

“Where is your friend now, Solomon? Where is Skulduggery?”

“He’s coming. He must be.”

“I’ll give him another day.”

_Now that Solomon had begun, he found he couldn’t stop. So he didn’t. Master Crow had asked him what had happened, beyond the general report the High Priest demanded. He hadn’t answered. He hadn’t been able to answer. Now, he could._

_“He used binding manacles. Do you know what it feels like, to be cut off from your magic? My cane was right there, and even when I held it, I felt nothing. Until finally, three weeks later, I became weak enough to power my magic on my own impending death. Do you know what_ that _feels like? To know that your only means to survive came because you were nearly dead?”_

_He turned around again, breathing hard and blinking against the burn in his eyes. His voice had cracked at the last, and he hadn’t been able to stop it. It had cracked because of anger. That was good. That was meaningful._

_There was another long pause. Then Skulduggery said, “I’m sorry.”_

_Solomon’s heart leapt, and he cursed it._

“Where is your friend now, Solomon? Where is Skulduggery?”

“I don’t—I don’t know—”

“Of course not. Because that’s what he does. He makes promises, he makes you think he cares about you, and then he lets you down. Oh, he’ll make excuses, and they’ll sound plausible, and maybe you’ll find it in yourself to trust him again, but in the end he will never be there when you need him.”

_“I didn’t know. I thought—”_

_The leap turned into a cold, shrivelling slide, and Solomon forced himself laugh. “You thought the Temple was holding me?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Solomon took a controlling breath and turned, and held himself rigid so Skulduggery couldn’t tell how close he was to breaking down. “I thought you were meant to be a detective,” he said coldly. “Detective Skulduggery Pleasant. And you expect me to believe you when you say you didn’t know?”_

_Skulduggery shook his head. There was something odd about the motion. Not bewilderment, exactly, but something Solomon couldn’t parse. “I’m only human, Solomon. How was I meant to—”_

_“You should have asked!”_

_Solomon’s explosion left ringing silence. He took a deep breath. “After all this time. All the cases we’ve been on together. I was gone for over a_ month _, Skulduggery, and you never thought to ask where I was?”_

_After all that time. Five years. It hadn’t remained hidden for long that Solomon had a friend outside the Temple. Bad enough that he had been an outsider, but now he was regularly consorting with them? The only reason he wasn’t thrown out was Master Crow. She had argued for them to allow him to stay, that he was more than powerful enough to make up for his eccentricities. That the Temple needed more necromancers versed in outside affairs, with settlements expanding so rapidly._

_Most of the necromancers still hadn’t wanted much to do with him, but he hadn’t cared, so long as the masters let him leave the Temple. Which they had, as soon as Master Crow had proven that his expeditions were advancing his training in leaps and bounds, more quickly than if he’d remained._

_All he had been concerned over was joining Skulduggery on his investigations. When he thought about it, his chest grew tight. It was all so obvious in retrospect, but at the time, he hadn’t seen it._

“He’s not like that.”

“Isn’t he? Tell me, when was the last time he actually complimented you?”

“He ... compliments me.”

“Your hesitation makes me wonder.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Then just listen. He pretends to compliment, and at first you’re so happy to get his regard that you don’t notice the barb. Then you realise the compliment actually had a double edge, and you feel stupid for not having noticed it in the first place. And then you wonder when he last gave you honest praise. And then you realise that he never has. That he expects more and more of you, asking you to do things which are silly or humiliating, or making you look like a fool with his intellect, and he’s never actually _thanked_ you for your time and effort. Has he ever thanked you, Solomon? Yes? No? Your silence tells me the answer is ‘no’, Solomon. Is that the action of a man who cares?”

_Five years, and Solomon had spent so very long trying hard to make Skulduggery pleased with him that he had never noticed how he was being used._

_“What do you want me to say, Solomon?” Skulduggery demanded, and now he sounded exasperated. Of course he did. Because, for him, this was only a hiccough. He didn’t actually care; he wasn’t actually invested. Solomon was a tool for him, and had been all along._

_“Nothing,” Solomon said flatly, and his insides felt empty. Like the heat of his anger had ravaged him, and there was nothing left inside. “I don’t expect anything from you. You should have done your job and asked questions, and you didn’t, when I needed you the most. You say that necromancy is evil? It’s the one thing that has never abandoned me—least of all when I was nearest to death.”_

_Part of him, the part of him that was still young and yearned for recognition, put the words on the tip of his tongue._ Did you ever actually care about me?

_But what was the point in asking for confirmation? All Skulduggery would do was lie._

_“This isn’t who you are,” Skulduggery told him. As if he knew. As if he was_ right _. Because, of course, Skulduggery Pleasant was always right._

_“What do you know about who I am?” Solomon asked._

“I know who you are. Your name is Solomon Wreath.”

“So it is. What’s your name?”

“You may call me Dillon.”

“Dillon. Pleased to meet you. Let me go, Dillon.”

“No, I don’t think I will. I went through all this trouble just to find you, you see.”

“... Your name isn’t Dillon.”

“No. That was the name of my brother. He abandoned it, so I decided I’d use it. He has another name now. Something arrogant and noticeable. I think you’ve heard it. Skulduggery Pleasant.”

_“Solomon—” Skulduggery began, but Solomon didn’t want to hear more. He had always known Skulduggery was manipulative. He just didn’t understand why he’d ever believed he would be the exception to that rule, just because he was supposed to be Skulduggery’s partner. He wouldn’t be party to that anymore._

_“Goodbye, Skulduggery,” Solomon said coldly, and then he walked past his former friend and down the bluff toward the Temple, and didn’t look back._


	23. 22

Gracious was a sound sleeper. He had never seen the point of _not_ being a sound sleeper, and as often as Donegan tried to explain that it wasn’t as easy as simply being asleep, Gracious still didn’t understand what was so difficult about it. Sleep when you can, wasn’t that the soldier way?

Donegan pointed out that a man who slept like a baby during a war was usually considered insane. Gracious pointed out that if it meant he got some good rest when he needed it, he really didn’t care.

Something struck him and he groaned and rolled over, burying his head in his pillow. Something else, not quite so soft, hit him on the head.

“Gracious,” he heard Donegan say, and covered his head with his pillow.

“Bane,” he mumbled, “you had better have a good reason for interrupting my beauty sleep.”

“Skulduggery’s gone.”

Then, of course, there were those times when being asleep was a bad idea. Gracious bolted upright and fell off his bed with a yelp. He groaned and pushed himself upright, holding his head. “How?”

“You fell asleep,” Donegan pointed out.

“I was _meant_ to.”

“So was I!”

They glared at each other, and then Gracious slumped. “We sort-of messed up, didn’t we?”

“Be honest,” Donegan said. “If we’d stayed awake in shifts to try and guard him, he would still have managed to slip out. Possibly after knocking one of us out.”

“Yeah,” Gracious grumbled, climbing to his feet and pulling on his jeans while trying not to stagger into Donegan or the walls or, most importantly, his bed. “But now we have to _find_ him, and do you know how that’s going to sound if they ask how we lost him to begin with?”

“Can’t be any worse than people knowing about that time we got scared out of that supposedly haunted house by that mouse,” said Donegan.

“No one _does_ know about that time we got scared out of that supposedly haunted house by that mouse,” said Gracious. “But to be fair to us, it was a really scary mouse. Where’s my shirt?” Donegan picked up his T-shirt from the desk and threw it at him. “Cheers.”

“No problem.” Donegan sat on the bed and watched him dress, folding his arms across his chest. “Where do you think he’s headed?”

“Why are you asking _me_?”

“You’re the one who said you could predict the unpredictable skeleton detective.”

“I knew I’d regret my reputation,” Gracious muttered, flopping down on a chair to pull on his boots. “Let’s see. He got some information from the Golem, but he didn’t tell us what it was.”

“Maybe we could figure it out if we went back to the Temple,” Donegan suggested.

Gracious rubbed his hair. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe we could figure it out if we went back to the synagogue.”

“Oh, we don’t need to do that.” Donegan picked up a bunch of pamphlets and post-cards, and one thin book, off the desk and waved it at him. “I got research materials. I just haven’t had a chance to read it yet. It’s been a while since we studied the Golem.”

“We should read it while we go back to the Temple, then,” said Gracious. “And by ‘we’ I mean you, because I have to drive.”

Donegan grumbled all the way out the door and into the car, but he settled into the seat and opened the pamphlets. One by one they got tossed onto the floor, except for a handful Donegan kept on his lap, and after ten minutes of agonising curiosity Gracious broke enough to ask, “What, those ones not good enough for you?”

“I don’t read Czechoslovakian,” Donegan said.

“You didn’t bother to see if the pamphlets you were picking up were in English?”

“I was in a hurry. Hey, this is interesting.” He peered at the pamphlet he was holding. Gracious managed to wait about ten seconds.

“What is?”

“I’m reading.”

“Read out loud.”

“It’s the story of the Golem.”

“I thought we already knew the story of the Golem.”

“We do.” Donegan looked at him. “But we overlooked something really important.” He turned the pamphlet around so Gracious could see, in a glance, the illustrated tale, including a picture of the Golem which didn’t quite look like the real thing, but was close enough to be recognisable. “The Golem had a name.”

Gracious’s head snapped around so he could look more closely, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of red lights and slammed on the brakes before he rear-ended the car in front. The moment they were stationary he snatched the pamphlet out of Donegan’s hand. “Josef,” he read. “The Golem was called Josef.”

“Keep reading,” Donegan told him.

“It was _called_ Josef, but it was known as Yossele.” He tossed the pamphlet into Donegan’s lap as the lights turned green. “So which is the given and which is the taken name? Is the Golem even alive enough to take a name?”

“Apparently.” Donegan picked up the pamphlet and read it again. “Does it even matter? Both names are protected. That’s probably why the rod didn’t work—” He cut off so abruptly that Gracious risked a glance over to see a strange expression on his face.

“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“Don’t rush me,” said Donegan, “but hear me out. The Golem is controlled by the sigils on its head, right?”

“Right.”

“And we know from experience that the sigils bypass its names, right?”

“Right.”

“So what _is_ the point of the rod?”

“Maybe it’s like Skulduggery said,” Gracious pointed out. “Maybe it was meant to control the Golem before it took names. Only a mortal would look at a massive suit of armour and think maybe it had feelings enough to name it.”

“So how come the sigils can control it?”

For a long moment there was silence in the car. Gracious turned one way, then another way, and then pulled up into the nearest free space by the curb and shut off the engine. He turned to Donegan. “Josef and Yossele are really similar names,” he said. “They both came from the name Joseph. Taking into account pronunciation changes over the centuries, most English-speaking sorcerers would just call it that, no matter which language it originally chose its name in. And technically speaking, a sorcerer can have as many names as he wants without losing the protection.”

“So what if Joseph is the name the Golem took,” Donegan finished, “and the sigils represent its given names for real?”

“But one of them turns it off.”

“They’re sigils. There’s reasons sorcerers don’t just tattoo their names on their chests.” Gracious opened his mouth to answer and then shut it. He stared at Donegan, opened his mouth to talk, and couldn’t, and wound up flapping his mouth like a fish. Donegan stared back. “What? What is it?”

“Necromancers,” Gracious said. “Necromancers and channelling objects.”

Donegan stared at him for a moment and then said, “Oh.”

“Necromantic objects connect to their owners. How better to do that than using names?”

“But if Vile got his armour from Smithaz, he might not have known that was necessary.”

“Which means that Vile’s armour isn’t bound like the Golem is,” Gracious finished. “Anyone who can write their name on it can probably control it. The Golem’s magic just so happened to register the command words as names instead of, well, commands.” He sighed. “Which doesn’t so much as tell us where Skulduggery is going. By now the armour’s probably in Russia. Or Africa. Or the Americas. There’s no way he can catch up with it.” He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel. “You know what? I bet he’s gone back to Ireland. That’s where the armour originated, which means it’s probably where Smithaz fled after Europe. If the research he took is anywhere, it’s probably there. Skulduggery’s gone to find it.”

He reached for the key but Donegan’s hand snaked out and took his wrist, and Gracious looked up to see a very strange look on his friend’s face. It was sort-of the same look Donegan had been wearing when they went hunting for Bigfoot and sort-of accidentally found it: a mixture of incredulity and deep unease. The only difference was that this time, it came with an ashen paleness. That was the part that worried Gracious. “What?”

“Gracious,” Donegan said quietly, “why is Skulduggery so determined to take down the armour all by himself?”

Gracious shrugged. “He’s got a hero complex. How should I know? He and Wreath used to be buddies, didn’t they?”

“What makes him think he’ll be able to control the armour by writing his name on it? Or what makes him think he could find Smithaz’s research? The man made _Vile’s armour_. He’s probably been dead for centuries. For Skulduggery to find the research Smithaz took, he’d have to know where he lived.”

There was a very unwelcome thought nagging at Gracious’s mind, a very unwelcome and insistent thought which grew more insistent the more Donegan spoke. It was the kind of thought which made his skin prickle with goosebumps. “Vile never did show his face.”

“And he appeared around the same time Skulduggery vanished.”

“Dexter said Vile took him prisoner.”

“Maybe he did. Just not in the way we thought.”

They looked at each other. Judging by the look on Donegan’s face, he felt as sick as Gracious did.

“They know, you know,” Donegan said in a low voice. “The Dead Men. All of them. They’ve got to. And they’re not telling anyone.”

“I don’t think it’s been for long,” said Gracious. “Something happened between them, remember? At Clearwater? Something that made them break up. That was only a month ago.”

Donegan shook his head. “Maybe some of them only just found out, but Dexter’s known for a long time. Otherwise he wouldn’t be thinking clearly enough to send us after him.”

The goosebumps turned into a sweeping chill, and Gracious shivered. Donegan’s grip tightened, and Gracious knew the same thing had occurred to him. Dexter had sent them out to stop Lord Vile from recovering his armour. It was the ultimate monster hunt, and the monster was on their side.

Gracious asked in a small voice, “Do you think Skulduggery really wants it back?”

Donegan was staring out the front window. “I think,” he said finally, “that he thinks he’s got nothing to lose by trying, to save an old friend he blames himself for getting kidnapped.”

“What do we do?”

Dexter hadn’t told them where he was going—just that Skulduggery couldn’t get to the armour, and that Dexter was going to try to find a way to stop it before Skulduggery could. But even if he succeeded and they managed to get the armour before Skulduggery did, what would Gracious and Donegan do then? Who would they tell? _Should_ they tell anyone?

“We go back to Ireland,” said Donegan, “and we stop Skulduggery from finding that armour.”

He released his grip on Gracious’s wrist and sat back in the seat, his arms folded across his chest. Gracious gunned the engine and indicated, and pulled out onto the street, aiming for the airport.


	24. 23

When planes were first invented they were one of those things that were simultaneously wonderful and terrifying, even for hardened veterans of a magical war. It took time for older sorcerers to get used to them enough to relax while flying on them. Erskine had been the first of the Dead Men to accept them enough to sleep on them, though Dexter had always suspected it was a result of the Elemental’s need for background noise while he slept.

Dexter had never quite been able to sleep on planes. He wasn’t an Elemental. He didn’t have a deep understanding of how air and physics worked. Planes were just a touch too complicated for him to conjure in the event something happened and they went plummeting down to earth.

He dozed in his seat, semi-aware of the vibrations and the quiet chatter, and not quite able to come awake enough to move his head off Annunziata’s shoulder. Maybe he was getting used to flying. Maybe he was just that tired. Maybe he felt satisfied enough with his progress that he didn’t care. Or maybe it was all of the above.

The intercom dinged. Dimly he listened to the pilot announcing their arrival and descent, and forced himself to stir. It was more like a grunt as he turned his face into Annunziata’s shoulder. She was warm, and smelled good. Like mint.

“If you hadn’t spent all night dancing,” Annunziata said without moving, “you wouldn’t be so tired.”

“If I hadn’t spent all night dancing we’d probably still be there,” Dexter mumbled.

“You haven’t yet explained what you discovered.”

“I don’t want to jinx it.”

“I didn’t realise the Dead Men were so superstitious.”

Dexter found himself smiling. “We have our moments.”

It wasn’t inaccurate. Right now, his reasoning and deductions held a crystalline clarity in his mind. He was afraid that if he tried to talk about them, he would shatter it and everything would turn murky all over again. It had taken hours of dancing to reach this point. His body still ached, especially his feet. He didn’t remember falling asleep the first time, or how long he’d rested, before he’d woken up with a toe in his side and Sati looking down at him in amusement, and his whole body stiff.

The thing he regretted most was falling asleep on the hard floor of her chamber, but since he’d figured out what she had been trying to teach him, and that clarity of knowledge had remained even after his earlier nap, he was willing to accept the consequence.

He hadn’t asked Annunziata what she’d learned. It didn’t seem fair, if he wasn’t going to talk about his own revelations. At the very least, he suspected it meant a lot to her to have been able to spend almost six days inside the Temple of her faith’s ancestors, let alone to be treated like a long-lost sister as opposed to some kind of outsider. That had been the biggest risk, and one that turned out to be an unnecessary worry. It was always a nice surprise when that happened.

It took about twenty minutes for the plane to actually land, and then Dexter levered himself upright with a groan, fishing in his pocket for his phone. There hadn’t been any reception in the Temple, and when he’d called around there hadn’t been any new developments—although he hadn’t managed to get in contact with Gracious or Donegan, either. He hoped it was for some benign reason. Like a lack of reception inside a Temple.

The moment his phone connected with the nearest tower, it chimed with missed calls and messages. All of them were from Gracious or Donegan. The satisfaction dissolved into cold dread, and Dexter thumbed the message bank’s number, listening impatiently through the electronic service.

 _“Oh, hi,”_ said Donegan’s recorded voice. _“I saw you called, so I’m calling you back, and I don’t suppose you could magically pick up, even though I’ve already reached your answering service? No? Fine, but let it be known that I’m unhappy with you, Vex.”_

In the background, staticky with the distance, came Gracious’s voice. _“Me too! Very unhappy!”_

 _“Call us,”_ said Donegan, _“as soon as you can. We’re coming to Ireland, and we need to have words.”_

 _“Words like ‘Vile’, and ‘Skulduggery’, and ‘are you freaking insane’, and ‘I’m flattered by your trust in us, Vex, but_ are you freaking insane _?!’”_

Donegan said something after Gracious’s peanut-gallery, but the cold dread swept over Dexter with such violence that it made him feel sick, and he didn’t take in the Englishman’s words. He waited through each message, his palms clammy in a way they hadn’t been since he’d been less than a century old. Each message was an increasingly more urgent demand for him to turn on his God-damned phone, including a warning that they were about to get on a plane to return to Ireland, but none of them mentioned Skulduggery or whether Skulduggery was included in the ‘we’.

The final message was from Gracious.

 _“Walking onto the plane now, Vex, I really hope you’re not already dead, because that would really suck. Also, if we don’t hear from you by the time we land, we’re going straight to—I don’t know, maybe the Grand Mage or someone. Deuce, if we can find him.”_ A pause. _“Please don’t be dead.”_

The message ended and Dexter lowered his phone, staring through the headrests at the people beginning to stretch and move out into the aisle.

“Dexter?”

Annunziata’s voice didn’t make him flinch, but only because he felt too numb, trying to keep the cold terror at bay. He turned to look at her and knew his face was ashen, and couldn’t quite change his expression. Wordlessly he opened a new message and sent a text to Donegan.

_‘On plane. Just landed. Phone off for tarmac. DONT TALK TO ANYONE BUT HOPELESS OR RUE.’_

Quickly he thumbed off his phone and stood to get their bags from the overhead locker. Getting into the terminal seemed to take forever. The waiting was always the worst part, but this was interminable. Dexter couldn’t help reaching into his pocket for his phone every few seconds. The very instant he was inside he thumbed the ‘on’ switch again, and was at the end of the ramp by the time it had started up. When it had, he was irrationally angry at it because he hadn’t gotten any new messages in the ten minutes while he exited the plane and crossed the tarmac.

“That’s an awfully black look for a man who was so satisfied ten minutes ago,” Annunziata observed.

Dexter throttled the urge to snap and said nothing. Instead he looked forward and strode through the crowd, deliberately projecting enough _get out of my way_ that people, well, got out of his way.

He didn’t hear the shouts until after Gracious almost bowled him over.

“You either have really good timing or really lousy timing,” Gracious told him, slinging an arm across his shoulders. Dexter could only stare at him, caught in-between frustration and dread, and the sudden lack of need for either. Mostly. Sort of. Not really.

“We were just about to borrow a taxi,” said Donegan, strolling up a little more slowly. If by ‘strolling’ one meant ‘really quite tense and full of nervous energy’. He looked at Annunziata and gave her his best smile. “Hello. Donegan Bane, at your service.”

Annunziata inclined her head at him. “Annunziata,” she said.

“Those are some very black clothes for a very pretty lady.”

“Don’t lay it on too thick, Bane,” said Dexter, shaking Gracious’s arm off his shoulder at last.

Annunziata shrugged. “I am familiar with false flattery, Vex. Do not worry on my account.”

“I was actually more concerned for Donegan’s fragile ego.”

“See?” Gracious said to Donegan. “I told you Vex would have already got in ahead. He’s probably had days to go and seduce the lady. Where did you find her, anyway?”

“The Italian Temple,” Dexter said, and Donegan and Gracious took a step back, exchanging looks.

“Oh, you’re a necromancer,” Donegan said with unconvincing cheer. “Fancy that.”

“No offence,” Gracious added. “It’s just that we’ve spent the last five days underground and having necromancers trying to put us in their dungeons or throwing us to sentient suits of armour.”

Something electric ran through Dexter. “The necromancers have captured the armour?”

 “I _wish_ ,” Gracious started, waving his hands in a manner very like Larrikin when he was about to spin a yarn.

“He means the first suit of armour,” Donegan added, and Gracious pointed at him.

Dexter stared. “What first suit of armour?”

“The Golem,” Gracious explained. “The Golem of Prague. It’s a suit of armour forged in Greece, like, a billion years ago—”

“Two or three thousand years.”

“—only this was before anyone figured out about the whole ownership by naming thing.”

Annunziata hissed.

“Was it something I said?” Gracious asked Donegan.

“I don’t think that’s meant to be common knowledge,” Donegan told him.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

Dexter sighed. “I need to get caught up. I also need to stop—the armour before it goes and does something stupid. How long ago did you lose Skulduggery?”

“Last night,” said Donegan.

“This morning,” said Gracious. They looked at each other. “Well, it was this morning over there,” Gracious grumbled.

“Only after we woke up,” Donegan pointed out, and then hesitated. “I didn’t mean to say that. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

“Bane,” Dexter growled, and Donegan spread his hands.

“What do you want from us? We lost track of the armour. It stopped killing people at some point after Greece. While we were at the Temple there the ex-High Priest wrote some notes about some armour which had come alive before, and Skulduggery went haring off, so Gracious said he’d gone back to Prague, so we tracked him down _there_ and went back to the Ottoman Temple to have a look at the Golem, and then it tried to eat Skulduggery so we left it there and when we woke up this morning he was gone.”

Dexter stared for a moment, and had to fight off an abrupt surge of dizzy relief. He asked, very quietly, “You lost the armour?”

“Temporarily,” Gracious said hastily, patting the air like he was trying to calm down a rabid dog. “I mean, I’m sure we’ll find it again before—you know. It’s just that we’ve got to find Skulduggery as well now, that’s all.”

The dizziness became literal and Dexter stopped and leaned against the wall, and fought off the urge to cry with sheer relief. Gracious kept talking and then stopped, and there was a pause.

Then Donegan said, “Oh.”

“Oh? What ‘oh’? Are you hiding things from me again, Bane?”

“We didn’t say what happened to Skulduggery in our messages. I think he thought that Skulduggery had been—you know. Killed. By the armour.”

Another pause. Then Gracious said, “Oh.”

Dexter felt Annunziata’s hand on his arm and opened his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. “I need a cup of tea. Where’s the nearest cafe?”

Twenty minutes later they were situated in an airport cafe and Dexter, still feeling weak with relief, was spooning sugar into his tea. Annunziata watched him with something very close to revulsion in the line of her mouth.

“Do all Irishmen ruin their tea in such a fashion?” she asked.

“Of course not,” grumbled Gracious, dumping his fourth spoonful into his tea. “We’re not _barbarians_.”

“I’m exhausted,” said Dexter flatly, dropping his spoon and taking a mouthful. “I’m dizzy, I’ve just been through a major shock and I’m pretty sure I’m channelling my husband’s sweet tooth.”

“Speaking of your husband, can I borrow him after this is all over?” Gracious said quickly. “I mean, you _do_ owe us. You owe us really, really badly. I think the _least_ you could do is let us borrow your husband for a night or two.”

“You have a husband?” Annunziata asked, and the startle was more pronounced than anything Dexter had yet seen in her expression.

“We needed an excuse to have a party,” Dexter said vaguely, and put down his tea, fixing his gaze on Gracious and Donegan. “Alright, you two. Explain.”

The explanations took longer than Dexter wanted, but not as long as he was expecting, even though they included full meals and two more cups of tea (or hot chocolate, in Gracious’s case). Apparently losing Skulduggery and the armour had injected a sense of urgency into Gracious and Donegan’s meandering intent. Both of them kept casting glances at Annunziata as well, though Dexter wasn’t sure if that was because she was a necromancer or if it was because she didn’t know about Skulduggery being Lord Vile. For her part, she listened intently.

“Fascinating,” she said once the pair had managed to successfully communicate the most important parts of the last six days, turning to Dexter. “Do you realise what this means?”

“The Golem probably had a blood-bond like Wreath’s bond to the armour,” said Dexter.

“Yes,” said Annunziata. “But the Golem, once sentient, killed its owner and was essentially set free. As soon as Lord Vile’s armour has gained enough awareness, it will no longer need Wreath.”

“But does that mean it’ll be free?” Gracious asked, stirring his spoon in his empty cup and peering wistfully into it as if that would make another dose of hot chocolatey goodness appear inside. “Wreath isn’t the armour’s owner.”

“Lord Vile didn’t have a blood-bond with his armour,” said Annunziata.

“How do you know?” Donegan asked, and then added hastily: “Not that I think you’re wrong, but how do _you_ know?” Annunziata looked at him and didn’t answer immediately. She was still, Dexter knew, getting used to Temple secrets being discussed as if they were every-day occurrences.

“Because he wouldn’t have been able to control it the way he was able if he did,” she said finally. “A blood-bond without the sealing of the names is unstable. Moreover, it’s unlikely Baron Vengeous would have been able to control it himself, and Cleric Wreath certainly would not have been able to forge a bond of his own. The armour, in its original incarnation, was an exceedingly powerful channelling object, but nothing more. That may be to our advantage. It may also be what makes the armour most dangerous.”

“How?” Dexter asked, leaning on his elbows on the table.

“Because Lord Vile coexisted with that armour for five years,” Annunziata said patiently, “apparently without taking it off. There’s a reason we use blood and names to own our items.”

“Not just to make sure no one else can steal your stuff?” Gracious asked. Annunziata shook her head. “I’m almost disappointed, now.”

Dexter was fairly sure he caught a smile at the corner of Annunziata’s mouth before she answered. “Blacksmiths laboured for centuries to figure out how to best utilise channelling objects, because necromancy is too powerful for an ordinary item. Most of the time, they broke apart. They were useless in the long-term. But do you remember, Master Vex, that when we first met I told you anyone claiming a necromantic object was sentient had to be telling stories? This is why. There are stories about items that survived the channelling process.”

“What kind of stories?” Donegan asked. Both he and Gracious were leaning forward slightly, intent and fascinated. Dexter was certain that if either one of them had bothered to bring notepaper, they’d have it in their hands, scribbling down ideas for another book.

“Ghost stories, mainly,” said Annunziata with a suppressed smile. “Some necromancers dismiss them. Others believe them. Others consider them an exaggeration of the truth. Only the smiths really know for sure, and they’re usually the ones spreading the tales. But I do know that the more powerful items—the ones that could stand to be used—became like parasites.”

Dexter sat up. “Parasites how?”

Annunziata shrugged. “I once heard a tale of a necromancer who used an unbonded glove as his item. It was said to be a work of art. Within a few years, it had become a thing of shadows and consumed his hand, until he could no sooner part with it than his whole arm. When he finally became so desperate as to do just that, the glove sprang from his discarded hand to his remaining, and consumed that as well.”

Gracious swallowed and pushed his cup away. Donegan looked ill. Frankly, Dexter felt ill himself.

“I could hear it calling to me”, Skulduggery had said. No wonder Saracen had been adamant that Skulduggery couldn’t get too close. Yet, at the same time, the description sounded familiar.

“How?” he asked slowly. “What causes that? They almost sound sentient themselves.”

Annunziata shook her head. “Not sentient, no. But they become a reflection of their host. Magic is influenced by our emotions, by our control and knowledge of ourselves. Without a proper binding, a channelling object can absorb those qualities about a person, the means and intent through which they use their magic, and become manifestations of those emotions. Perhaps that is why the armours, of all objects, have been able to come alive. They are, after all, made in man’s image.”

“I feel sick,” Gracious mumbled.

“Join the club,” said Donegan. “How is that, in any way, to our advantage?”

“Because it can still be neutralised,” Dexter said quietly, staring down at his hand and tracing his fingers, feeling the buzz of magic in them. He held it out and put just enough energy into his skin that his fingers glowed, but not enough for it to be seen past their bodies. “It’s the same principle as my constructs. If I put enough energy into them, they can maintain their integrity. But if I can’t muster enough control to nudge them properly into existence, they’ll fall apart, just like an unbonded object too weak to handle the magic put into it. Necromancers name their objects after themselves in order to ground them. An unbonded object turned into pure magic would need magic constantly funnelled through it in order to maintain its existence. Given enough time for the magic to drain, an unbonded object would fall apart.”

“But the armour hasn’t been used for two centuries!” Gracious protested.

“The armour,” Dexter said grimly, “is responsible for the deaths of thousands if not millions of people over five years.” And it was owned by a _living skeleton_. A living skeleton who had, for almost century before then, existed in a state of constant rage. “It might have been dormant, but two centuries can’t have been enough for it to become dissolute. If we can prevent it from becoming sentient enough to take a name, or stop anyone else from claiming it, we might be able to contain it long enough for it to die on its own.”

“That may be difficult,” Annunziata said quietly. “Wreath already has a bond with it. That might be enough to ground it into existence.”

Dexter looked down at his empty mug, and pushed it away, and stood. “Then we’d best get started on containing it,” he said, “and figure out where the hell to go from there.”

Gracious put up his hand. “Can I go to the loo, first?”


	25. 24

_It stood staring up at the house using his eyes. The house was large, but not too large. In the memories it had, the house was not so large that it felt empty even when there were people there. There had been people there. A father. A son. Their servants._

_Now the house was vacant. No one had lived there in years. Parts of the house had broken down._

_He looked at the house and his chest felt tight, and he knew his cheeks were wet. He hadn’t been back to this house since he was seventeen years old._

_It looked at the house and felt his quickening breath, and the moisture of his tears, and took control of his vocal cords to ask, “What are you doing?”_

_He didn’t answer immediately. He never did. It didn’t know why. It always got angry, but being angry didn’t change that he never answered immediately, so it waited, angry but patient._

_“I’m crying,” he said. His voice was a hoarse and muffled thud on its insides, as always, but sounded strange. Thick._

_“Why?”_

_“I don’t want to be here.”_

_“Why?”_

_He sighed and rested his head against its helmet. It let him feel its anger and his breathing stopped for a moment, as happened when he was surprised or frightened. “This is where Da died.”_

_“What is Da?” It showed him his memories, searching for the house. He didn’t try to stop it this time. That was better. It damaged him less that way. It showed him his memories of the man who looked like him, but older and with grey at his temples and hair on his face. “This is Da.”_

_“Yes. That’s Da.”_

_It looked at the house and then turned and moved through the garden. There was death here. It was a very old house. Very old gardens. There was a sparrow’s corpse on the ground, being fed upon by ants. There was a rat inside the house, not long gone. There were older deaths, going back years. Some of them were so faded there was little power in them. But there was one place, in front of the doors and near the fountain, that was very old and yet powerful. There had been magic used there._

_It went to that place and stood there, and reached for the death. It heard men arguing. It heard men shouting. It heard them screaming. It saw what they saw, a boy with a cane and a face of savage fury, and wreathed in darkness—_

_“Stop!”_

_He cried out but it ignored him and drank in the power until the darkness shifted around them, whispering. Fourteen men had died in this courtyard. Fourteen men killed with necromancy, murdered violently, and it was beautiful, like song—_

_He was crying. Crying and struggling inside it, and interrupting the song. It used the fury in the murders and let him feel it. Usually, that was enough to make him stop._

_This time the anger looped around and there was power inside it, erupting from every joint until it felt as if it was being torn apart from the inside. It was an odd sensation. Painless, because it couldn’t feel pain, but still the strength of that power would have made its parts bend if they had still been merely metal. Instead the anger rushed through_ him _, a feeling that didn’t belong to it. The anger was a surge, surprising but far from a match for its own. It waited, and the anger passed, and he slumped inside it. It could feel his heart pound. It could feel his magic thrum in its parts._

_His magic. Its magic. Theirs._

_“Use it.”_

_“No.” It showed him its anger. It could tell it damaged him, but he said the word again. “No.”_

_It didn’t like that word. People said the word, when they saw it, and usually the word was filled with fear. He had said the word like that too. But now when he said the word, he sounded quiet. His voice was the same as when he needed it to feed his body with magic, to keep his body from failing, even though it could tell this wasn’t the case now._

_“Why?”_

_It wanted him to use his power. All his power. It couldn’t use that power without him. It had tried, over and over._

_“It’s mine,” he said._

_“It’s mine,” it insisted. “You are mine. Use it.”_

_“You’re a suit of armour. You don’t have belongings.”_

_It showed him its anger again, to make him stop talking, and stopped using his eyes, so that he was left in darkness. Now all it could feel was the magic, and the death, and the anger. But it wasn’t calmed. It couldn’t shake the words the man had spoken, the man with the strange voice and the empowered staff._

“You aren’t Solomon Wreath. You are using Solomon Wreath, but you are not Solomon Wreath. Who are you?”

_“You are mine,” it said again. “I am not you, so you are mine. Do as I say.”_

_“No.”_

_It let its anger build, but this time it moved through his memories until it found the one it wanted. It, also, had this memory. This memory but from a different place. A memory of anger, and fear, and power. So much power, spreading through souls quick as a thought, as a want, as a need. It knew he could use power like that. Its lord had been able to use power like that. Power, used like that, made the whole world open up to it. It remembered that feeling, and he was denying it._

_“Use it,” it said. “Feel it. Give it to me.”_

_“No!”_

_It fed him its fury and felt him cry out wordlessly._

_“Why?” it demanded. “Why ‘no’? Why do you make me damage you?”_

_His breathing was quick and raspy, and echoed around its inside. He was fragile. They all were, but it needed_ him _. If it hurt him too much, it would damage his usefulness. Why did he make it do so?_

_“You don’t deserve it,” he said at last. He had never answered before. It had never asked why he would refuse. There was no reason for him to refuse. He only became damaged when he did._

_It was curious, but it kept its anger close, and simmering. “What is ‘deserve’?”_

_“It means you haven’t earned it,” he said. “You’ve done nothing worthy of having it. You haven’t sacrificed anything to gain it.”_

_He said many things it didn’t understand. So did the others. For some reason they found complicated things important. It wouldn’t have cared, except that now understanding meant it might be able to use his power. All of his power._

_“What is ‘sacrifice’?”_

_He didn’t answer. It waited while his thoughts moved. He had needed to do that more often lately._

_“Sacrifice,” he said finally, “is giving up something very difficult to give up, without being asked and without getting something in return.”_

_What he was saying seemed one of the strangest concept of all. It asked, “Give up what?”_

_“I don’t know. It could be anything.”_

_“I gave you those who would have controlled you.” It had felt fear in him. His fear that those he called his leaders would find his secret and seek to use him. It had killed them for him. For them both. They had tried to use it as well, back when it belonged to its lord. Now they could not._

_“You murdered those who once wanted to control or oppose_ you _.”_

_It showed him its anger and left his memories to rifle through its own instead. It called them its own, but it wondered if the man with the empowered staff would agree, then decided it didn’t care. Most of its memories were of the time when its lord was in control, but they still belonged to it and it must give something. Perhaps that something must be from its own memories, and not his._

_There was one memory it had puzzled over even then, before it knew how to puzzle. When it was a reflection of its lord. It still remembered the confusion, and something else, something not quite like the physical pain its lord sometimes endured, but very similar. It showed the memory to him, the memory of a battlefield filled with a song of power and—_

They stood on the bluff and extended their senses outward, and felt the buzz of souls against their awareness, tickling and irritant. With barely a thought they absorbed the energy of the ones too weak to resist, and added the magic to their own. The weak ones were inconsequential. There were Others, bright blazing souls against the soothing coolness of the song.

There were many. They put some of their power into the fleshly bodies to defend them while they drank in the spread of the power, knowing that at any moment they could extend their awareness further and—

Their empowered slaves were snuffed out, and they were forced to bring their attention back to the physical, to the soul that destroyed them. Sorcerer. Woman. Fast and fearless and ruthless.

Inconsequential. She was killing their slaves, and they meant to snuff her out, but there were Others, still, and the moment they took their attention away the Others began to encroach on their awareness. They fed her more slaves to kill, and turned their attention to the field.

“Mother!”

Sounds. Another soul, almost as bright, belonging to a scarred man.

... Inconsequential.

“Oh, hello, Ghastly, are you having fun?”

“Mother, what are you _doing_?”

“I’m going after Vile, of course. If Hopeless couldn’t tell you _that_ , he’s falling down on the job.”

“One might almost think you were enjoying this.”

She laughed. She laughed as she killed their slaves and the sound rang in them, hurting in a way that wasn’t damage. They didn’t like that sound. That sound dragged their attention from the field, made them want to think of inconsequential things that had nothing to do with the song or the power or—

Get rid of it.

The rage flared and they drew it in and gave their attention to the Woman, and raised their hand and summoned power and brought it down on the Woman and the Scarred Man and all those nearby. The Woman slipped out from under their power, squirming and flaring and quick. Fury built and they made their power heavier. Souls snuffed out, one by one, until only the Scarred Man was left, flickering weakly and about to join the rest—

“GHASTLY!”

Ringing. That sound. Familiar. They didn’t like it. Distracting. They felt their power dissolve and meant to strengthen it, but the Woman flared bright and came at them, and they had to repel her, bringing their power in close to block her fists and feet.

Fury. Almost equal to theirs. She almost broke through their power.

They reached out and bade their few remaining slaves to come, and their slaves came, all at once. Not many, but enough, while she was blinded by rage. The Woman’s onslaught faltered and they lashed at her, and she fell. Close. So close. She had almost broken through.

They looked down at the Woman as she looked up, her fists clenched to attack again. They looked down, into her eyes, and saw—

She faltered.

They snuffed her out, and added her power to theirs.

_—too late it realised its mistake. The memory wasn’t his. He wasn’t equipped to accept a memory that wasn’t his. He screamed when it showed him, screamed and then cried for a long time, his breathing irregular and shuddering. It hadn’t meant to damage him, but it couldn’t change that it had. Maybe it hadn’t damaged him too much. His body was unhurt, but it had learned that there were other damages it could do._

_It waited until he stopped crying and making his wordless sounds, and asked, “Is that a sacrifice?”_

_He didn’t answer for so long that the world was dark when he did. His voice sounded strange. Empty. “Yes. That is a sacrifice.”_

_It considered. The Woman was a Sacrifice. But the Woman’s power had been added to its lord’s a long time ago, before it slept. It would need to find another Sacrifice. It had no others in its memory, but it recalled there might have been one in his._

_He cried out when it found his memories, and struck its insides. He hadn’t done that in a while. The blows were annoying, so it extended its power into his body so it could hold him still while it looked. He wasn’t too damaged to look through his memories, and it knew what it was looking for._

_It found the woman in his memory, the woman who had taken him away from this house. It compared the image of this woman to the one in its own memory. There were differences. His woman was taller, and had dark hair in a plait, and wore dark robes. The woman in its own memory was small and muscular, and had brown hair loosely tied, and wore clothes that let her move freely._

_It looked further, but not deeply, searching for proof the woman in his memory might be a Sacrifice. He could not move, but he tried, his fear pushing back against the rage. It wasn’t enough. It was stronger than he had been in days, but it wasn’t enough._

_“How are you adjusting, Solomon?”_

_“I’m not sure. It’s very ... new. And cold. I miss the sun.”_

_“So do I, sometimes.”_

_“What are those?”_

_“These? They look like candied roses to me. Possibly they are for a discerning student. Of course, they couldn’t possibly be for a student who hasn’t completed_ all _their lessons ...”_

_“Your subtlety overwhelms me, Master Crow.”_

_“I was meant to be subtle, was I?”_

_“Will they let me out again?”_

_“They’ll let you out again. I’ll make sure of it. You’ve been improving in leaps and bounds, Solomon. They couldn’t possibly deny that your new affiliation has been helpful for your schooling, and you would never have been an ordinary necromancer regardless.”_

_“... Do you mind?”_

_“That you’re learning from someone else? No. I was running out of ways to keep you engaged.”_

_“Are you certain this is what you want, Solomon?”_

_“How can you ask me that? You’re the one who brought me here.”_

_“And yet, I do have to note that you learned the most outside the Temple ...”_

_“That affiliation is over.”_

_“You enjoy your time best outside the Temple also.”_

_“I can serve the Temple outside its walls as easily as within. This is what I want, Master.”_

_“... As you please, Solomon.”_

_His memories, it felt, were always ... confusing. They weren’t simply thoughts and actions. They were overwhelmed by emotions too. It knew emotions. It knew rage. It knew dislike. It knew disdain. But here were others attached to his memories which it could not identify. These memories, the memories of this woman, contained emotions it did not know, and yet were similar to one another._

_It needed to understand. It slowed, and looked more deeply._

Even now, three days after having left the healers’ wing, Solomon’s hands shook. He watched them with an air of detachment, and then fisted them, and picked up a bundle of clothes to fit them securely in his pack. Three days since he’d left the healers. Almost a week since his match with Lord Vile. He still felt as if he would turn around, and there it would be, that silent armoured titan.

Lord Vile wasn’t actually all that _big_ , Solomon knew. It was the armour. The armour made him seem gargantuan. So large that if Solomon let himself stop for any reason, he could imagine its owner watching him from somewhere else within the Temple. As if he _were_ the Temple.

The sound of the door clicking shut made Solomon straighten and turn, and he only realised he’d reached for his cane after it was already in his hand, defensively raised. Master Crow, standing by the door, only lifted an eyebrow. Solomon exhaled slowly and forced his hand to lower, and almost bowed. He inclined his head instead, and managed not to say the ‘Master’ which sprang to his lips.

“Cleric Crow.”

She looked past him, at his bag. “They’ve already sent you out on a mission?”

Solomon turned to finish packing, and found he couldn’t quite present his back to her, his mentor. The one who’d taught him anything worth remembering. “I asked for one.”

“There’s no need to prove your right to the title, you know.”

Her voice was filled with gentle amusement, and Solomon might have answered equally, if in fact that had been close to the truth. Three days a cleric, and all he wanted was to get out. “I know.”

He had been working toward that day for upwards of a century, for nearly two, in fact, and now that he’d reached it the occasion seemed hollow. Those chosen to ‘test’ Lord Vile’s strength hadn’t been offered rewards. They had simply been expected to follow orders, or to volunteer for the sake of their faith. Lord Vile was the Death Bringer. It should be an honour to fight him. To serve him.

Solomon had to wonder if any of the higher clerics expected anyone to survive, and had to scramble to find a suitable prize. It wasn’t even as if he’d _won_. But he had survived. It had become very clear, very quickly, that that alone was an accomplishment.

Solomon just hoped everyone was too distracted by Lord Vile’s power to ask why.

In silence he finished his packing and buckled the bag. Then he turned to face Morwenna squarely, keeping his face blank. “Is there some may I might serve you before I leave, Cleric Crow?”

She looked at him for a long moment. “Solomon,” she said, “I know how you survived Lord Vile.”

Electric fear ran through him and without thinking his grip on his cane tightened, enough to make the shadows draw to him. They didn’t get any further than that. He’d spent too long honing his control to let them get further than that. But he couldn’t make them settle, either. Instead Solomon swallowed through his dry mouth and said with icy calm, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh?” Morwenna raised an eyebrow and glanced pointedly around the room. At the shadows poised protectively around him, and hanging threateningly over her. Solomon saw them, noted them, and still couldn’t quite muster the ability to leash them properly. But when she returned her gaze to his face there was no accusation there.

“Twenty-three acolytes, Solomon. Twenty-three acolytes dropped dead seemingly of their own accord. The others assume it was Lord Vile, but Lord Vile has too much control to kill anyone other than those he wants to kill.”

 _Like you_ , she didn’t say, and didn’t have to. Solomon had never felt the weight of such a will, before then. If Vile had been _trying_ , Solomon might have laughed off the duel. But Vile hadn’t been _trying_. He didn’t _need_ to ‘try’. He just did. As if Solomon was a pest barely registered in his awareness.

Morwenna paused to wait for a response, but Solomon had none to offer. His heart was pounding, and his mouth was dry, and he was waiting for the anvil to drop.

Her voice quietened, became gentle. “You used the death-aura, didn’t you, Solomon? You took their souls and gave them to Vile and hoped they might distract him from you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said as calmly as he could, and still he was aware that he sounded like a guilty child. There was no point in dissembling. There had never been a point to dissembling with Morwenna, and yet sometimes he still tried. “I barely understood what I’d done until afterward.”

“And yet you did,” said Morwenna. “Not even Vile has shown himself capable of—”

“He will,” said Solomon quietly and with such finality that Morwenna stopped. For a moment there was silence. Then Solomon asked, “What will you do?”

What would _he_ do if she said she had to tell the others? He was already prepared for an attack. With a thought, he could remove the problem. If he wanted.

He didn’t want. She was his mentor. His friend. The nearest thing to a mother he’d ever had.

Morwenna regarded him for a moment before speaking. “Vile has been labelled as the Death Bringer. Do you believe it?”

“No,” Solomon answered shortly. “He has the power, yes, but he cares nothing for the magic or the people. We are tools or subjects, or worse. Not a particularly good perspective for a saviour.”

“I agree,” said Morwenna, “and I am not the only one, not only here but on the Continent. There is little we could do save caution, unless we have someone, or something, capable of countering Vile.”

A chill swept through Solomon so fast that his skin prickled. His shadows bristled and coiled, several departing from the walls. “No.”

“Solomon—”

“ _No_. Whatever faith you have in my abilities, Morwenna, it is misplaced. I don’t have a fraction of Vile’s power. If the others know—if _anyone_ knows—they will make us fight again. There can only be one Death Bringer. And next time, I would die.”

His words sounded flat in the closeness of the shadows. Morwenna didn’t even spare them a glance. But she said, softly, “Alright. I won’t tell anyone.”

It wasn’t enough. There was too much energy running through Solomon to relax. “Do you swear?”

“I swear,” she said.

Solomon exhaled, closed his eyes, and forced his control on the shadows to loosen. Leaving the Temple constituted walking into a war-zone, and he would still be safer there.

“Thank you.” Solomon turned away to find the few odds and ends he preferred to keep on his person. “I will return in perhaps a month.” With luck Vile would be gone by then.

“I won’t see you,” said Morwenna.

“I didn’t realise you were still accepting missions.”

“I’m not. I’m leaving.”

Solomon straightened and turned again, this time in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

She looked at him evenly and with that considering look he had seen her use when she was making a long-sought realisation. “I’m leaving the Temple.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“We were just talking about him. Vile. Because of Vile. And not, I suppose.” Morwenna brushed the door as if the shadows were a puppy she was indulging with a petting. “I have always been eccentric, Solomon. You knew this. I have always felt there is something wrong about the way in which we approach our magic, our beliefs. As if there is something we’re missing. It took me until this conversation to realise what it was, and now that I know, I cannot stay. I couldn’t countenance it.”

Solomon swallowed and spoke through a tightening throat. The Temple without Morwenna, and with the threat of Vile lingering, suddenly felt like a much colder place. “And what is that?”

“Fear,” Morwenna said. “I am not afraid, Solomon. I will not waste my life in useless ventures, but I am not _afraid_ to die. Yet that is all we do, here in the Temple: we fear. Even you, my favoured pupil.”

She smiled at him then, wearily but kindly, as if he was a youth again, impatient with the slowness of the other acolytes and the course of her own teachings. She didn’t ask, but he knew that if he wanted, she would take him with. He could leave the Temple, never come back, never have to deal with Vile again. Never have to fear he’d be thrown away as fodder.

Except that he couldn’t. Those who attained cleric status received sacred knowledge. That was one of the reasons Solomon wanted a mission outside the Temple. He was trying not to think about it, but he knew he would have to. He just didn’t want to think about it _here_. He didn’t feel as if he’d be able to reconcile that knowledge as long as he was here, where Vile was. Yet now that he had that knowledge, now that he’d earned that trust, it was a betrayal to turn his back on it just because he was afraid of their own saviour.

He asked, “Do you think there are enough people living in the world today to make it so?”

He dodged the details. He wasn’t quite up to asking if there were enough people in the world for them to murder, to save the other half. And Morwenna knew what he meant, anyway.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose there will always be enough, at any given time, to save the half that remain. That’s what it means by ‘half’. It suggests a balance to things.” A shadow fell across her brow as she frowned, but Solomon didn’t ask what caused it. Instead he just nodded, his skin buzzing with energy. He didn’t ask where she’d go. Morwenna had always agreed the war was as much theirs to fight as Ireland’s clans. Sooner or later, she would wind up with Meritorious.

“Goodbye, Cleric Crow,” he said, and it sounded formal and cold. _Necromantic_. Because necromancers rarely cared about anyone but themselves. Impulsively he added, “I am indebted.”

Because he was. She had saved him, as a youth, given him a place to live, and taught him when he’d begun to doubt himself. Now she was concealing a secret which she was honour-bound to report.

Morwenna laughed, and turned to leave. “If you insist,” she said. “One day, I may just collect. But only one day, Solomon. Farewell.”

_“No.” His voice came out strangled. It realised it was holding him tightly enough to stop his breath, and eased its grip. He choked and gasped and coughed, and his body remained in place, mimicking the posture of its own parts. It regarded his emotions attached to the memory, and his emotions at viewing the memory, and made a choice._

_“She is a Sacrifice.”_

_“No. No, armour, don’t.”_

_“I am not ‘armour’.”_

_“Don’t. Please.”_

_It tilted its helmet. “I will give you a Sacrifice,” it said, “and then you will give me your power.”_

_It drew up the shadows, and took them both away from the house._


	26. 25

By the time Dexter, Annunziata, Gracious and Donegan hailed a taxi and found their way to the Waxworks Museum, to the taxi-driver’s great bemusement, Dexter had called Hopeless and managed to snatch a restless nap in the car. By ‘nap’ he meant ‘ten minutes of drifting and dreaming of Gracious singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round’.

“ _Was_ I dreaming Gracious singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round’?” he muttered as an aside to Annunziata as they got out of the taxi.

“No,” she said tersely, and Dexter sighed, hiked up his bag, and let the Monster Hunters lead the way into the Sanctuary.

As it turned out, Hopeless was ahead of them. There was a scrawled note on Hopeless’s door telling them to go down to the gym, so they went down to the gym. When they got there, they found Saracen, Hopeless in his Elder’s robes, and China Sorrows. That wasn’t a surprise, because that was why Dexter had called Hopeless. They didn’t have time to hold back due to sensibilities. China would be as interested in making sure Vile’s armour didn’t continue to run rampant as everyone else.

What _did_ surprise Dexter was the paleness of her face when she turned to him and mustered a smile. China wasn’t an easy woman to shock, let alone enough for her to show it, but right then, she was shocked. “Dexter. How wonderful to see you again. It’s such a pity it isn’t under the same circumstances as last time.”

“Sorry,” Dexter said dryly, “but I’ve started making it a habit not to bed women who blackmail my friends with trauma.”

Her eyes flickered. “Ah. You’ve spoken to Erskine about more than simply the Baron and ... the armour, I see. How much did he tell you?”

“Enough,” said Dexter, and looked at Hopeless. “You told her?”

It didn’t need to be a question, but it was anyway, because a statement would have sounded accusing and if _anyone_ other than Skulduggery himself had the right to reveal that particular secret, it was Hopeless. If any one of the Dead Men had the right to reveal any one of their secrets, it was Hopeless. He gave a short nod.

“He felt I needed some ... encouragement,” China said dryly, and her gaze drifted across the rest of Dexter’s group. “May I suppose these others know as well?”

“Gracious and Donegan do,” said Dexter. “This is Annunziata of the Italian Temple. She doesn’t.” He glanced at her. “No offence.”

She took a moment to answer, and Dexter only realised why when it took her a few seconds longer to pull her gaze away from China than it should have. “Sacred knowledge is sacred knowledge,” Annunziata answered, sounding distracted. Her gaze kept trying to flick back to China. “You lead the fight against the armour. I am but an aid. There is no need for me to know the details.”

“How refreshingly depressing,” said China. Annunziata looked down, her cheeks reddening.

“Just because _you_ pursue knowledge to the exclusion of all else doesn’t mean everyone else has to,” Dexter pointed out. “And please stop enthralling my helper. I need her clear-headed.”

“Dexter, my dear, if I were _trying_ to enthral her, she wouldn’t have been able to answer you.”

“Then stop embarrassing her.”

China shrugged. “Would you rather I lie?”

“Don’t worry,” Saracen said to Annunziata, patting her arm. “China has that effect on everyone the first time. Well, most people. You handled it well. I seem to recall making up a sonnet on the spot.”

“ _I_ drove a stage right into the crowd to catch her attention,” said Gracious proudly. China gave him a dazzling smile that made him squeak.

“And catch my attention you did, Gracious O’Callaghan. Especially the part where you almost ran over one of my servants, and then when you fell off and splashed me with mud.”

Gracious wilted. “Oh, yeah.”

Hopeless, tired as he looked, had a shadow of a smile on his lips. When he met Dexter’s gaze the smile vanished and he nodded. Dexter took a deep breath. “Right. Introductions over.”

“Hopeless says you have a plan,” China observed. “I hope it’s a good one, given the circumstances.”

“Annunziata and I know a circle of sigils which can bind the armour,” Dexter said bluntly. After the news about Skulduggery, Dexter had asked Annunziata just what she’d learned at the Temple. He shouldn’t have been surprised that it was the same thing as he, from the opposite direction, but he had been. That, and relieved. “We need you to translate it.”

“Translate?” One of China’s delicate eyebrows lifted.

“The manner in which it was given to us is somewhat unusual,” Annunziata murmured.

“Is that why you needed the paint?” Saracen demanded. “Do you know how hard it is to get paint at this time of night?”

“Where _did_ you get paint at this time of night?” Donegan wondered out loud.

Saracen shrugged. “Raided one of the Sanctuary work-rooms. Tome was having some of them done up. At least Dex didn’t ask for any kind of _special_ paint.”

Dexter was already taking off his boots and socks, and after a moment Annunziata hastily followed his lead. “Gracious, Donegan, do us a favour and pour some of the paint into those pallets.”

“What are we now, janitors?” Gracious grumbled, but moved over to the tins. Hopeless had made sure the gym floor was clear, so it was a great expanse of flat stone, very like Sati’s meditation room.

“I admit, I am intrigued,” China said, watching Dexter as he directed Gracious and Donegan to put the other filled ones down at specific intervals around the room.

“What _are_ they doing?” Saracen demanded of his father, but Hopeless only smiled and shrugged in that way that wasn’t even trying to pretend at innocence. Without missing a beat Saracen pivoted on his heel and demanded of Dexter, “What are you doing?”

Dexter flashed him a grin as he stripped down to his trousers. “Ready?” he asked Annunziata.

She, also, had stripped down to bare feet, and her shift. It wasn’t unlike the clothes some of the more modest Kalikula had worn. Annunziata nodded to him. “Ready.”

“No, seriously,” Saracen persisted as Dexter moved to the other side of the gym to take his place opposite Annunziata. “What kind of binding circle is this?”

“A very old one,” Dexter admitted. “So old it’s not even written down.” His feet were already stinging with sympathetic memory. At least the floor was cold. He stepped into one of the pallets of paint and turned to face Annunziata, wriggling his toes to feel the paint squishing between them.

“You look like you’re about to dance or something,” Gracious said. “I know you have trouble getting one up on Saracen, Dex, but is this _really_ the time to seduce pretty ladies by taking them dancing? Even necromancers?”

Annunziata laughed and held out her hands, and grinned at Dexter with a wicked gleam in her eyes that reminded him very much of Sati. “Dance with me, Dexter Vex,” she ordered. “Dance with me in the name of the Goddess.”

“As you wish.” Dexter closed his eyes, and thought of a dimly-lit chamber with mosaic walls and a stone floor. Then he opened them and raised his arms, and danced to the sound of the music in his head. He didn’t let himself think of the paint under his feet, or the lights in his eyes, or the audience. He just let his mind go as if he was sparring, and let his body move through the steps he’d performed dozens of times over the last five days. He and Annunziata met, split, met again, matching each other step for step until finally they met in the centre of their circle. It wasn’t until Dexter felt the shock of cold stone under his sweaty back that he let his conscious mind seep back in.

Breathing hard, he looked up at Annunziata as she spun into her final step and ended with her foot, delicately, on his sternum. She looked down at him, and blew a raspberry, and he laughed. It took a moment for him to realise that laugh was echoed from the sidelines, and then he groaned and rubbed his face with his hands.

“You’d think they never saw a man dance before,” he grumbled, and Annunziata stepped away from him so he could roll over and onto his feet, brushing absently at the paint on his chest. Sure enough, Gracious was laughing hard, bent over and leaning on Donegan. Donegan was coughing in lieu of laughing, and Saracen was smirking madly.

China wasn’t. Nor was Hopeless. Both were moving around the circle, looking down at it. Dexter took the opportunity to glance over his handiwork, and rubbed his hair. It looked, he had to admit, like a bunch of kids had done some painting with their toes. There were a lot of splash-marks, especially around the pallets they’d used to refill their ... feet.

“You got this one wrong.” China pointed down at one specific section. Dexter blinked at her.

“How can you tell?”

“Because these are sigils,” China said simply. “And this one is gibberish. There’s several different things it _could_ be, but as it stands now it’s meaningless, so you must have gotten the steps wrong. Same with over there. And over there.” She pointed to each place. Hopeless cleared his throat and pointed to his feet. China barely glanced over. “And there also. You’ll have to dance it again.”

“Dance the sigils again,” Gracious repeated, and snickered.

Dexter scowled at him. “Remind me to tell everyone about that time in America when that shaman had you cavorting around the campfire.”

Gracious shut up. Grinning hugely, Saracen moved closer to help refill the pallets and shift them to another swatch of bare floor. “You come up with the most _interesting_ methods of investigation, Dex. Where’d you learn this one?”

“India,” Annunziata said, shaking paint off the hem of her shift and bending to help move the pallets.

“I wasn’t aware there were any language masters in India,” China murmured, still moving slowly around the circle, her sharp gaze on the painted sigils. Dexter had seen that look once or twice, enough to recognise it. China was half in a world of her own.

“You’d be surprised what’s in India,” Dexter answered. Bad enough that China was going to get hold of a binding spell like this. Worse if she knew from where it had come. China looked at him with an arched eyebrow and then turned toward the new stretch of floor.

“Dance for me,” she said with a winsome smile. “Dance for me until I can translate these sigils, there’s a pair of dears.”

So they did. They danced over and over, until they were splattered with paint and their feet were aching, until their bodies throbbed with their heartbeats. Each time, they remembered more, or got different things wrong, so that China could patch the circles together and still know the sequences.

“Why don’t you just write it down?” Donegan wanted to know.

“When you learned to fight, could you write your techniques step-by-step?” Dexter demanded.

“This is a marvellous piece of work,” China murmured, comparing the circle on her pages to the one on the floor. (Saracen had been sent to get some stationary from Hopeless office.) “I’m still curious as to where you learned it.”

“Keep being curious,” Dexter said, slumping onto the bench by the wall. “Can you replicate it?”

“Of course,” said China calmly. “Some of your steps are persistently incorrect, but I have enough to fill in the holes. This isn’t like any binding spell we have in Ireland.”

“What’s so different about it?” Saracen asked, handing Dexter a bottle of water and a towel, and toeing a pallet of water under his feet.

“Because it isn’t as simple as binding magic in general,” China said. “This is a tailored spell.”

“Tailored to necromancy?” Dexter asked.

China smiled at him. “The fact you assume that fascinates me. Where _did_ you learn this, Dexter?”

“It’s a circle we’re about to use to bind necromantic armour,” Dexter pointed out, ignoring the question. “What else was I meant to think?”

“True. In fact, it isn’t. It’s more of an aid than a binding; judging by these sigils, I suspect it was used to help untrained sorcerers bring their magic under control.”

“What good is it for us?” Gracious demanded. “We’re trying to get the armour bound, aren’t we?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” said Dexter grimly. “The armour didn’t just choose Wreath at random; it’s bound to him. It’s probably feeding off his magic.”

Saracen set a pallet of water under Annunziata’s bench and straightened, glancing at the circle. “This spell is going to help _Wreath_ take control of the armour? Great. How do we know he’s still sane?”

“We don’t,” Dexter said simply. “But hopefully it will be enough to put some manacles on him, and hopefully _that_ will be enough to keep the armour contained.”

“There may be another option,” China said slowly, leafing through her pages. “I thought some of these sigils seemed redundant, but any true master of sigils wouldn’t have so many of them in such a complicated spell without reason.”

“So?” Donegan asked with a shrug.

“I’m not finished, Bane,” China said mildly. “Do be quiet.” She turned to Dexter. “This spell is designed to be three-dimensional as well as two-dimensional,” she explained. “It can be tattooed on the body. A circle on the floor may stop the armour, but with manacles Wreath wouldn’t be easily moved. If we can place the binding _on_ him, the armour would be contained wherever he goes.”

“But?” Dexter prompted, because there was always a ‘but’. Hopeless, standing by the door, smiled grimly, and that alone confirmed Dexter’s suspicions.

“In the first place, the binding will be on his magic as well,” China said. “Using it would be the same as using the armour. Perhaps I could make amendments to change that, but I would need more time to analyse the spell to say for certain.”

“So he’d have to give up his magic?” Donegan shook his head. “Can’t see a necromancer doing that. No offence.” This was said to Annunziata.

“Do we even _need_ his permission?” Gracious wondered.

“Yes,” China said simply. “That is the second thing. The spell requires consent. Otherwise, Wreath’s own magic would fight it at every step. He must volunteer to host the armour for the foreseeable future—unless, of course, someone else would care to do the same.”

“If anyone can,” Dexter said grimly, “what with his being blood-bound and possibly insane.” He looked across the gym and then at China. “We have enough room for one more round. Need us to dance it again?”

“It certainly wouldn’t do any harm,” China said with a delicate shrug of her shoulders.

“And after I went through all that trouble to help you clean your feet,” Saracen grumbled.

“You put some water on the floor, Rue, don’t start sulking,” Dexter shot back. “I _could_ have demanded a foot-rub.”

Saracen waved a hand. “Rover would only complain about having to undo my horrible work.”

Annunziata hid a smile and rose, her feet still caked with dried paint. “Then we’d best continue,” she said, “or my feet will rebel.”

Dexter got up and stifled a yawn as he made his way across the gym. It had to be getting near dawn now, and he _still_ hadn’t had a proper sleep. One last round and then he could turn the reins over to someone else for a while.

He had barely taken his position when Hopeless’s head snapped around and his pupils dilated fast, and he bolted for the door.


	27. 26

Morwenna moved slowly through the aisles of the Repository. It was the most peaceful place in the Sanctuary, which didn’t really say much. Most of the Repository was filled with items seized through war or by force, or were so powerful as to constitute weapons of mass destruction. Still, those same objects served to remind her of the achievements of the Sanctuary in the past.

It was, however, the place with the fewest people in comparison to any other room in the Sanctuary. Right now, that was what Morwenna needed: distance from people to be able to plan their next moves. It wasn’t easy without knowing how much Guild would be on side at any given time, but that, too, was something for which she had to plan.

She felt as though she should have been surprised when it happened, but she wasn’t. Morwenna turned onto the aisle those in the Sanctuary called ‘the boulevard’, simply because it bisected the majority of the largest hall. She was halfway down it when she heard a swish, a very familiar swish she had once heard every day, and before she turned she knew the armour was standing behind her.

For a long moment they regarded each other. Morwenna’s heart beat with that slow anticipation, but she wasn’t afraid. Not of the likes of Vile’s armour. The part that made her palms sweat was the knowledge that Solomon was inside of it. Solomon, looking at her through that visor. Could he see her? Was he speaking, unheard, behind that mask of shadows? How much control did he have?

None. That was how much. Even if he could see her, even if he could speak, even if the armour wasn’t holding him completely possessed, he was still forced to watch as the armour used his body and his mind to murder others.

Morwenna wasn’t afraid. That didn’t mean she was going to encourage death to come faster, and so she said nothing. Finally the armour stirred, if only to tilt its helmet.

“I am going to kill you,” it said in the tone of someone prompting another. The voice was raspy and deep, but Morwenna still fancied she could hear strains of Solomon in it. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was pure dread. Vile’s armour was just armour. It shouldn’t have been able to talk. The only way it _could_ talk was because it was using Solomon’s voice.

“I know,” she said, quiet because she was distracted by that horrible thought. “May I ask why?”

The armour remained stationary, but with its helmet tilted its air was inquisitive. “Why?”

“Why are you going to kill me?” Morwenna asked.

For a moment the armour didn’t answer. Then it said, “You are a sacrifice.”

Morwenna almost frowned. She didn’t by virtue of restraint, and because she wasn’t sure how the armour would react. “A sacrifice to what?”

Did it even know what a sacrifice was? Unlikely. It was learning, that much was clear, but it still wasn’t human. There was only so much it could learn from Solomon through simple observation—however that observation was taking place.

“He will give me power if I sacrifice you to him,” the armour explained. Morwenna blinked. Solomon wouldn’t _give_ the armour power for such an exchange. Nor did the armour say he said he would; it simply made the child-like assumption that because it wanted power, it would get it. But what sort of power could it want that it didn’t already have?

The only answer made a chill sweep through Morwenna. “Do you understand what a sacrifice _is_?”

“A sacrifice is to give something of worth to another,” said the armour in the intonation of a paraphrase, “without expectation of something in return.” It straightened its helm and the movement was ominous. Threatening. “You must sacrifice.”

Absurdly, Morwenna felt like laughing. The armour was a child. Completely uncomprehending that it had a place in the world, a place that meant everything applied to others applied to it as well.

“That is not inaccurate,” she said in the same tone she used to use on eager, ignorant and yet arrogant students. The ones who felt they were above the rules, and yet wanted to learn nonetheless. And the armour _did_ want to learn. It would have killed her already if it didn’t have a genuine desire to know more. “But it is incomplete.”

Had Solomon told it that? Did it ask him questions? How did they converse? Not out loud, surely?

“A sacrifice must come of one’s self,” she explained. “If there is something _you_ want, the sacrifice must come from _you_. You cannot kill me and call me a sacrifice. You have lost nothing to do so.”

The silence was almost deafening. Morwenna stood tall, and stared the armour in its visor, and waited. Finally it said: “Explain.”

Morwenna opened her mouth to answer, but was stopped before she could, and her ability to answer was robbed the moment she heard the response. Or to whom it belonged.

“—run—”

Solomon’s voice was hoarse and picked up like a broken record, and cut off just the same. Morwenna didn’t know if that was because he had no more breath, or because the armour had stopped him. She couldn’t ask, either, because she stood frozen, her throat too tight for sound. He _was_ still alive in there. He was still alive, and aware, and the armour spoke to him out loud and he answered the very same way.

Then he screamed, a thin scream with barely any sound to it. Such cold chills swept over Morwenna that she shuddered and closed her eyes. She forced them open a moment later, because this was _Solomon_ and she would not look away.

His scream ended in a sob, and Morwenna heard a dull metal thud, as if someone inside the armour had slumped against it.

“Explain,” said the armour, this time with an edge. Now Morwenna could hear Solomon in the sound. In the hoarseness. In the preciseness of each word. No wonder Solomon’s voice sounded like it did, with the armour ripping his throat to shreds. The thought which made her step forward.

“ _I_ will explain,” she said firmly. “If _you_ want something, you must be the one to give it up. You cannot sacrifice me to Solomon. I mean nothing to you. I do not belong to you. You cannot sacrifice what is not yours.”

There was a pause. Then the armour said, “I want his power.”

“I know,” said Morwenna.

“What must I give to have it?”

“That is up to him,” said Morwenna.

The armour’s helm tilted. “What must I give to have it?”

Morwenna opened her mouth and then closed it again. That question wasn’t meant for her. She just wasn’t certain she wanted to hear Solomon’s voice again. Not like this. Would he answer, or would he try to tell her to leave again? She’d heard him—it was just an impossible request to obey.

It seemed to take an eternity before that answer came, and it came slowly, with the breathless precision of a man who wasn’t sure if his voice would hold. “There is nothing you can offer me.”

“I want it,” insisted the armour.

“No.”

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

Their words had the weary frustration of a conversation held over and over, without changing. Morwenna was familiar with conversations like this, but usually only between a parent and a recalcitrant child, and when the parent was at their wit’s end. At most, a young acolyte might act in such a way, but the Temple quite handily cured them of that sort of obstinacy.

The armour was no young acolyte. It couldn’t be punished, because it was too powerful. It couldn’t be reasoned with, because it was too young and didn’t have enough of a moral background to care about things in the same manner as a rational human being. It _wasn’t_ a rational human being.

Morwenna took another step forward. Shadows, drifting on the floor and around the crannies of the walls, snapped into focus. She tensed, but managed not to draw up her own shadows in response. “Do you know the meaning of ‘priceless’?”

Another pause. The armour’s helm straightened. “No.”

“It is when something is of such great worth that there is nothing for which the owner would exchange it,” said Morwenna. “It cannot be bought or begged or taken by force, no matter how much it might be coveted. You cannot have Solomon’s power, Armour. He prizes it too highly to give it away for any price.”

“I am not ‘armour’.”

“—don’t.” Solomon’s words caught in his throat. “Don’t—name it.”

The shadows sharpened and he cut off with a choked cry. It was a subtle gesture of magic, one Morwenna hadn’t noticed before. Because, she realised now, that magic was contained within the armour itself. To hurt Solomon.

“It already has a name,” Morwenna said quietly without breaking their gaze. “You cannot have Solomon’s power, Armour. You cannot take it and he will not give it to you.”

The armour didn’t answer. Then shadows shot out and threw Morwenna against the wall, and held her there, many shadows poised to impale her. “Give me your power or I will kill her,” it said.

Morwenna remained still, her back aching and feeling the cold burn of the shadows on her shoulders and wrists and thighs. Even through her enchanted Elder’s robes, she felt it. “Don’t,” she said. Her voice was calm. Her heart was pounding. “You and I both know it will be worse if you give that up. You are a survivor, Solomon. Don’t give that up.”

“I will kill you,” the armour told her. “I will kill you if he does not.” It tightened its grip enough to steal her breath. She fought off the urge to gasp and levelled her gaze back at Vile’s armour.

“I know,” she said.

It inclined its helmet, half in confusion and half in accusation. “Say ‘please’,” it prompted. “They say ‘please’, if I give them the chance. I am giving you the chance. I did not give it to the others.”

“You don’t know what ‘please’ is, do you?” Morwenna asked, but it wasn’t a question. Not really. She didn’t even wait for a response. “Someone says ‘please’ when they want something. You’re threatening to take peoples’ lives from them. They want to keep it. Of course they’re going to plead if they have the chance. If they think it will work.”

“You won’t,” observed the armour. “Why won’t you say ‘please’?”

“Because I’m not afraid to die,” Morwenna said, staring into its visor and straining to see some hint of Solomon’s eyes in the darkness. “Most people are afraid of death. The other necromancers are afraid of death. I realised that to be afraid is to let death control me. That isn’t how magic is meant to work. That isn’t how life is meant to be lived. You cannot live when you shrink from the shadows.”

The shadows broadened on the floor, spreading and whispering like a carpet. Showing off. “I control death,” said the armour. “I _am_ death.”

Morwenna heard a groan then, and at first thought it was metal; then she realised it was altogether too broken, too breathless, too filled with wrenching pain. But the shadows hadn’t sharpened, and at first she didn’t understand why Solomon would make such a noise without the armour’s duress. Then the armour’s chin lifted. As if it was surprised. As if it’d had an epiphany.

“I am Death,” said the armour again, and a cold sweat broke out on Morwenna’s skin. “I am Death. I am— _I_ am Death.”

It took a step forward and shadows gathered around where it put its boot, as if flocking there to be fed. If Morwenna hadn’t already been pressed up against the wall, she might have tried to back away. She couldn’t. But her stomach turned and she felt ill.

 _“Don’t name it,”_ Solomon had said. The armour was just sentient enough that having a name might be disastrous. In some corner of her mind, Morwenna had been aware of that potential. It just wasn’t until right now that she realised Solomon was worried about giving it ideas about finding its own. How could that possibly work? The armour was sentient, but it didn’t have a soul. It couldn’t possibly have a true-name. How could it have names of its own? How could those names _seal_ the magic that didn’t belong to it in the first place?

And yet. And yet the shadows shrank and grew and gathered and swelled across the walls and ceiling. As if they were settling. As if the armour had just undertaken some kind of Surge.

“I _am_ Death,” said the armour again, in a very low voice, so low it almost didn’t scratch at all. “You are mine. You _will_ give me your power. Or I will take her, as I have taken all the others.”

It stopped, and waited, and at first Morwenna thought Solomon wasn’t going to respond. Then she heard a quiet sound beneath the shadows’ whisper, coming from within metal depths.

Solomon was weeping.

“I told you once you needn’t fear death, Solomon,” said Morwenna softly. “That has not changed, nor ever will. Do not fear death, my student. That is the only power it truly has over you.”

“Your answer,” the armour demanded. “Give me your answer, and give me your power.”

There came a quiet breath, or a gasp, or a sob. Solomon’s voice came out as a raspy whisper. “No.”

“Then she will die.”

Morwenna smiled. “Say thank you.” The armour tilted its helmet. “Mind your manners, Death. You always say ‘thank you’ when someone gives you something. I’m giving you my life. I always have. The least you could do is show some gratitude.”

The armour regarded her. “Thank you,” it said, and shadows burst out of the wall through her chest just as the doors were thrown open and Hopeless ran in.


	28. 27

_Death took the Sacrifice’s power and added it to its own, and then turned to face the Bright Man in the doorway. There were others with him, making sounds. They always made sounds._

_“Holy—can I terminate this contract? Dex, I’m terminating the contract!”_

_“That smear on the wall is the Grand Mage’s blood. I don’t think terminating anything is going to be on the cards.”_

_“I’m not Irish. I’m not bound by honour to avenge her death.”_

_Three different voices. The Short Man, the Man With Fists, the Foreigner. Death knew the Man With Fists, but only on the battlefield, from long ago. There were others. The Alluring Woman. Death remembered her from its time under thrall to its lord. The Black Woman. Her clothes, her hair, all dark. The Spiral Man. His life moved in closed circles. Even in its lord’s memory, Death had never seen someone whose life moved in such a way, draining out of existence. Perhaps he was damaged._

_Most of them were inconsequential. But the Bright Man … something stirred in Death. Something it had never felt. Solomon’s mind told it the something was fear, and told it very loudly. Very_ smugly _. Death showed him its anger, and focussed its attention on the Bright Man. “I am Death.”_

_The others fell silent, very suddenly, but the Bright Man walked forward. He lifted his hands and moved them in the air, but he made no sounds. The Spiral Man did instead. “Hopeless says, ‘I know. We’ve met before.’”_

_No sounds. How strange. “Why do you not speak?”_

_The Bright Man’s hands moved. The Spiral Man’s voice sounded. “‘I can’t. I have no tongue. I speak through my hands instead.’”_

_“Why do you not take another tongue?”_

_The Bright Man smiled and shook his head, and his smile made that feeling in Death deepen._

_“‘A man only gets one tongue in his lifetime. Even if I could take another, I would deprive someone else.’”_

_“Who?”_

_The Bright Man shrugged._

_“‘Whosever tongue I took.’ Really? ‘Whosever?’ Is that even a word? You had to spell it out. I don’t think it’s even a word and you’re mocking—sorry. Never mind. Carry on.” The Spiral Man coughed and fell silent._

_“You should punish him,” said Death to the Bright Man. “He has contravened his purpose as your voice.” The Spiral Man went pale. The Bright Man shook his head. The others were moving, trying to flank Death, but it ignored them. None of them were summoning magic. None of them were near enough to constitute a threat. The Bright Man was the one who stirred a new feeling. Death didn’t like that feeling. “Why?”_

_“‘I need him. He’ll help me better if he’s unpunished. Have you noticed?’”_

_“That’s what you want to lead off with?” muttered the Foreigner. He was stepping through the door._

_“Shut u~up, be nice to the lunatic mass-murdering armour, now,” mumbled the Short Man. He, also, was fleeing. Inconsequential._

_Death considered the Bright Man’s words, and regarded his life. He wasn’t young. Not nearly as young as the Black Woman, not even as young as the Alluring Woman. His life not quite so vital as the Man With Fists’. But his soul was bright. Encompassing. Death didn’t like it, and wasn’t sure why. The Sacrifice had reacted oddly, and not at all as planned. Nor had Solomon. Death wasn’t worried about the others—but it didn’t dare make a mistake against the Bright Man when it didn’t know why he caused such a feeling._

_“Yes,” it said. “Solomon was more helpful undamaged. But he needed to be punished. He has not given me what I want.”_

_“‘What do you want, Death?’ Do we really want to know?” The last was said very quietly. Death ignored the Spiral Man and expanded its awareness outward, and felt its shadows pulse against the scarred membrane of Solomon’s soul. It damaged him, but he made no sound. He had no control of his body with which to make one._

_“Power,” said Death. “I want the world. The world is mine to have. He refuses to give me the means by which to have it.” It lifted its gauntlet to point at the Sacrifice’s empty shell on the floor. “I would have exchanged the Sacrifice’s life for his power, and still he refused.”_

_“What power?” whispered the Spiral Man. The Bright Man made a sharp motion, without looking away, and the Spiral Man fell silent, and only spoke again when the Bright Man moved his hands. “‘Do you understand why?’”_

_“The Sacrifice attempted to explain,” said Death. “She did not do so very well.”_

_“‘It’s hard to explain ethics to someone who hasn’t experienced a conscience before.’”_

_“What is ‘a conscience’?”_

_The Bright Man smiled. The smile made his eyes crinkle, and something shone in them that made that feeling shift. As if the smile had tightened things in Death which it did not have._

Guilt, _said Solomon, and Death showed him its anger. Solomon made no effort to fight it. Maybe Death had damaged him. It didn’t care. “What is ‘a conscience’?”_

_“‘A conscience is a feeling inside of us which helps us realise what’s right and what’s wrong,’” said the Spiral Man, watching the Bright Man’s hands. “‘It makes us feel guilty when we’re not sure, so we stop to ask ourselves whether we should be doing the things we are.’”_

_There was movement in the room. Whispers. Footsteps. Liquid splashing. Souls in the distance, but approaching from two different directions. Two of them were the Short Man and the Foreigner. A third was larger than either, so large Death had known he was there the moment it entered this place. It had faced that one before, in its lord’s memories—the Titan._

_It could kill the Titan. It was Death. It could kill anything. But killing would be easier with the power, if only the Bright Man would tell it how to make Solomon give the power away. Like the Sacrifice, the Bright Man was not afraid. Perhaps that was why they were able to tell it more than the others._

_“What is ‘guilty’?”_

_“‘Guilt is what we feel when we regret something we’ve done, and feel sorry we did it. Regret is when we wish we hadn’t done a thing. We can regret without feeling sorry. But to feel sorry is to understand that we have hurt someone else, and how we have done so, and want to make sure we don’t do it again.’”_

_Sacrifice had not mentioned such concepts. Neither had Solomon. They were strange. Complicated. Too complicated. Death didn’t like them. Things ought to be simple. It put anger in Solomon’s voice and asked, “Why?”_

_“‘Because that’s what it means to be human.’”_

_“I am not human,” Death pointed out as men came into the room. Most of them were inconsequential. They flinched at his words. But the Short Man and the Foreigner had returned, and the Titan was very consequential._

_The Bright Man regarded Death, and though he was still smiling, that look in his eyes was even stronger than before. Death didn’t like that look. It had never seen that look before. That look was nothing like any expression anyone had ever directed at it._

It’s called pity, _said Solomon, and Death showed him its anger._

 _“‘I know,’” said the Bright Man, with his silent hands and that look of—of_ pity _—in his eyes. It was only then that Death noticed the hum in the air which didn’t belong to any item in the room. Death’s helmet snapped around and it saw the Man With Fists tense for battle. It lifted a gantlet and summoned shadows. Magic pulled together and tightened like a noose, and Solomon_ pushed _—_

The world went dark and tumbled around him, and Solomon was caught in the armour’s rage without compass. Hard stone jolted his knees. The world arranged itself into having an Up and a Down, and then the armour showed him its anger and he screamed, and his palms hit the floor.

His weaker hand buckled and his shoulder thudded against stone, and his side, and then ‘Down’ was orientated to his right. That actually helped the world stop spinning. It did not, unfortunately, stop the armour from lashing out, from letting its rage build until Solomon felt as though there was a volcano erupting under his skin.

His body arched on the floor and his throat burned with the scream it couldn’t manage. Magic tried to ooze through his pores like they were the joints of a suit of armour. Or a skeleton.

He didn’t push back. Right now, he couldn’t _push back_. But he held his mental ground, clinging to the anchor of his self, and let the anger wash over him.

_“You are a survivor, Solomon. Don’t give that up now.”_

He _was_ a survivor, he reminded himself. And he _was_ afraid of death, both kinds. But he could also feel magic buffering his own, like a wall against his back or an extra tether holding him stable, so that even though Death’s anger _hurt_ , Solomon wasn’t swept away by it. Of course, that did mean he was more aware of each excruciating second that passed than he had been when the armour was in control. Right now, he wasn’t sure whether it was worth the price, but he was there, and in agony, and the alternative was much worse.

Eventually it ended and Solomon slumped against the floor. His lungs burned and he coughed, and his throat flared with pain. He would have cried out if he could have. He couldn’t. When the armour had control of his body, it didn’t bother to make him breathe. Every time it let him go, he had to remind himself he could draw air again. Everything was an exercise, now. It took him some moments of listening to his heart pound just to realise that someone was speaking to him.

“Wreath? This is Dexter Vex. Can you hear me? If you can’t speak, then … tap once for yes, twice for no. Or blink. Blinking’s good.”

Solomon took a breath and blinked slowly.

“Alright. Good. Are you—can you still sense, slash talk to, the armour?”

Solomon almost laughed. The armour heard Vex and filled Solomon up under his skin. He rode out the pain, concentrating on his breathing. Breathing, right now, was a privilege. He didn’t particularly want to lose it again.

“I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?”

Solomon blinked once.

“Alright. We’ve got a binding spell around you. We can’t risk stepping into it, but if we tossed in some manacles, would you be able to put them on?”

“That may not be wise,” said China Sorrows. Oh, brilliant. Just the person he wanted in this state.

“Why? He needs medical attention. We need to get closer.”

“Because the binding spell is designed to use Wreath’s own magic to hold back the armour. Certainly, the manacles may bind the armour in the short-term, but they would also remove Wreath’s ability to resist it personally. As Wreath currently seems sane enough to respond, do you really want to risk that changing?”

There was a pause. A loud pause, in which Solomon could heard the sounds of voices overlapping each other in the Repository’s echoes, and the roar of his pulse, and the armour’s silent fury. “No. Not really. Do you have any suggestions, then?”

China sighed. “I am going to regret this.”

Solomon felt someone breach the circle. He felt it, mostly, because their soul brushed up against his magic and the thin leash keeping the armour controlled.

 _The Alluring Woman_ , said Death. _Take her. Take her life and add it to your power, and give it to me._

Solomon grit his teeth and let his body writhe without denying the pain, and held Death back. _No._

_Give it to me!_

_No!_

By the time the armour’s rage had ebbed, Solomon was dimly aware of someone close by him, and the sound of chalk scraping stone. He lay there panting, breathing in perfume without having anywhere near the wit to try and determine what sort it was, and only realised it was China Sorrow’s because of the unwanted and highly unwelcome skip it put in his heart.

Magic snapped into place. The armour’s rage built and dashed itself against the walls of the binding spells, and Solomon gasped, and sank against the floor. Now he could actually feel the confines of his body as something other than a distant appendage, and every minor twinge that hadn’t been enough to make itself known beforehand.

“Solomon, dear, can you hear me?”

Solomon’s eyes were closed, and it was far too difficult to force them open, so he nodded carefully.

“Very good. The effects of the binding spells are stacking?”

He nodded again.

“Excellent. Excuse me.”

Solomon heard her rise and others approach, each with soft, barefooted steps. Death was a persistent, very loud buzz in the back of his consciousness, but he was fairly sure there was a layer of noise made from people talking. He took a slow, careful breath and croaked, “Who’s—there?”

“Hopeless and Rue are talking with Bliss and Guild,” said Vex quietly from near his head. “We called them in just in case we needed backup, but now Guild’s having trouble accepting the situation. Is the armour still there?”

“Yes.”

Vex exhaled. “Okay.”

Someone took Solomon’s hand gently, and he almost twitched away. The touch felt searingly hot after so long inside that armour, with only cold metal and shadows to define his world. But it was living, and soft, and a moment later his fingers curled around the hand. It couldn’t be Vex’s. It was too small. “Who—?”

There was a pause of startled realisation, and then a woman said, “You’re blind.”

“Yes.”

“How long?” Vex demanded, and Solomon tried to think back. The days and nights had become a blur. There wasn’t any such thing inside a suit of living armour.

“How long—since Clearwater?”

“Nearly five weeks.”

The very first thing Death had done was explore its new home, its new host. That meant funnelling magic through Solomon’s mind and body. Having the armour take control of his eyes had felt like acid being poured into them from the inside, and ever since then, whenever the armour wasn’t controlling them directly, his vision had been dark.

Solomon was fairly sure that had happened within the first few days.

“Nearly five weeks,” he whispered. “Who are you?”

“Cleric Annunziata,” said the woman softly, “of the Italian Temple.”

The Italian Temple. Solomon remembered it, in a haze of pain and darkness. He remembered murdering half their higher circle. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezed his hand gently. “It wasn’t you.”

That wasn’t even what bothered him about the situation … he didn’t think. He wasn’t sure of any of his emotions right now. He barely had room for any.

“Wreath, listen,” Vex said, quietly but with an edge of urgency. “The binding spell we’ve got on you wasn’t designed for two-dimensional use. It’s a tattoo. If we put it on you, you’ll be able to contain the armour long enough for us to find an alternative. But it wouldn’t work without your permission.”

Solomon breathed, and let the tension those words wrought flow past him. “Get it out of me now.”

“We can’t,” Annunziata said, and Solomon slumped, squeezing his eyes shut until they burned.

“You know as well as I do there’s only one other place it can go, Wreath,” Vex said in a low voice. “And it’s got a name now. Right now you’re our only chance to keep this thing contained.”

“Then kill me,” Solomon told him, and the words were out before he could consider what he was saying. He marvelled at them and the lack of hesitation. He’d spent so long being afraid of dying that the fear had been an inescapable part of him. Now, without even a pause, he _asked_ to die. It was a novel experience.

“Will that kill the armour too?” Vex asked, and Solomon hesitated.

“That is doubtful,” said Annunziata of the Italian Temple. “Gracious O’Callaghan and Donegan Bane said that the armour of Prague tried to possess Skulduggery Pleasant.”

“She’s right,” Solomon whispered. “The armour has a name and a bond. It would only reanimate me, or be free. But you already knew that.” Vex’s words had been phrased as a question, but there had been a lack of intonation at the end of the sentence which removed any actual uncertainty from it.

“Could the—owners of the binding spell remove the armour from him?” Annunziata asked.

“Maybe,” said Vex, and raised his voice. “China?”

“It’s possible,” said China from a distance, through a hum of magic. “It’s risky, but I imagine it would be possible. Possibly I could do it, if I were given the time to construct some sort of alternative. Kenspeckle Grouse may have ideas as well.”

She wasn’t convinced. China Sorrows was not a woman given to displaying hesitance or uncertainty, and yet she wasn’t convinced, and with a start Solomon realised she knew the identity of the armour’s first master. It was the only way they could have convinced her to help. And maybe she was right; maybe she _would_ be able to take the armour out of him. But at what cost?

Which was why Vex had asked him if he would play permanent host to the armour. For the first time, Solomon found himself afraid of _living_.

_“I told you once you needn’t fear death, Solomon. That has not changed, nor ever will. Do not fear death, my student. That is the only power it truly has over you.”_

She had. Morwenna told him more than once, in fact, with her attitude and her approach. He’d never been able to believe it, let alone when she told him in words. Not until she had stared Death in the face, and admonished it for rudeness, and let it take her without complaint. The armour had been right. Morwenna had been a sacrifice to death. Nor the first. Very suddenly, Solomon was very tired of sacrificing things.

“Do it,” he said, and the words scratched his throat. In fact, his chest was awfully tight as well. It wasn’t his injuries. Not completely. This felt more like an impending dread. “The binding spell. Do it.”

“We will need medical personnel here,” said China. “Wreath looks as if he’ll expire at any moment.”

“Donegan’s called Grouse and one of the teleporters. They’ll be here soon.”

“Cleric Wreath?” Annunziata asked, squeezing Solomon’s hand, and through the buzz in his ears he realised his grip had tightened. The buzz grew louder, and though the pressure felt similar to the armour’s onslaught, it was coming from outside him, instead of within.

“Something’s—” The outside pressure matched Death’s inside him, and his being was consumed by pain.


	29. 28

There were a lot more people in the halls just outside of the Repository than there usually were. A lot more Cleavers, too. The Cleavers, at least, had a purpose in being there. Most of the sorcerers were sightseers trying to find out whether it was true Lord Vile had been captured inside Sanctuary walls, and whether the Grand Mage was really dead.

Dexter ignored them all, and the fact he was still barefoot, and the fact he was covered in splatters of paint, and let his expression clear the way for him. He was aware of Saracen dogging his heels, because only an idiot wasn’t aware of his own allies, but right now he was too angry to let Saracen in on his plan. Assuming he had a plan. Assuming Saracen didn’t know he didn’t have a plan.

He’d told Wreath he’d be right back. He didn’t think Wreath had heard him. Not that Dexter knew the man well enough to truly care, but it was a heartless man who didn’t pity the pathetic creature Wreath had become. Blind. Wasted. He obviously hadn’t eaten in a month, and was only alive because the armour needed him alive. Because it had kept him alive, using magic. His injuries from the fight with the Baron hadn’t been tended. He hadn’t washed. His lack of food was a benefit, because it meant that he hadn’t had need of a bathroom, but he stank nevertheless. The very image of a tortured man rescued from a dungeon after weeks of suffering.

And Dexter had wondered—was that what Erskine looked like the day the Torment lifted him from Mevolent’s dungeon?

It wasn’t a typical thought. The Dead Men tried hard not to think thoughts like that, because it was over and done with and even Saracen could do only so much to change the past, and they all felt so guilty about not being there in the first place. But Dexter and Erskine had been talking about it not long before Clearwater, and now Erskine was refusing to talk to him at all, and Dexter hadn’t been able to help it. He’d had the thought.

Saracen tugged on his sleeve. “Turn toward Hopeless’s office.”

Dexter turned without breaking stride, and then turned again, and within the next corner he saw the familiar too-thin shape of a hatted, suited skeleton. Skulduggery looked up and started to ask, “Dexter, have you seen—?”

Dexter punched him in the jaw, only at the last moment remembering to turn his fist enough to avoid breaking bones. That didn’t mean he held back. Skulduggery slammed back against the wall and then drooped against it, pausing for one moment to collect himself before lifting his hand to his jaw. Without waiting for him to say anything, Dexter took his arm and dragged him to Hopeless’s office, and slammed the door behind all of them, and tapped the privacy ward.

For several seconds there was silence. Skulduggery straightened his suit. Dexter took some deep, controlling breaths. Saracen sat on the couch by the door.

Finally Skulduggery said, “I need to know where Solomon is.”

“No,” said Dexter, “you don’t.”

Skulduggery looked up, his eye-sockets shadowed in the light. “You don’t understand. It’s his only—”

“Shut up!” Dexter clenched his fist and took an extra breath. “Shut up. You don’t have the right to talk. You don’t have the right to do anything. You have no idea how much of a monumental idiot you are. You went to find the notes Smithaz stole from the Greek Temple, didn’t you?”

Skulduggery was a skeleton. It was hard to tell when he stiffened. Dexter, having known him closely for centuries, could tell. “The armour needs to be controlled. I’m the only one who can do that.”

“The armour took _a God-damned name_ ,” Dexter shouted. “It would have been the one controlling _you_! Vile would have been back, but _worse_ —because this time there would have been no chance of talking you down!”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can,” Saracen said quietly, and Skulduggery looked at him, and didn’t answer.

“How dare you, Pleasant.” Dexter’s voice shook, and he didn’t care. “How _dare_ you try to go at things alone.”

“It’s my burden to—”

Dexter swore and his fist flew, and Skulduggery crashed back against the desk. This time, he didn’t straighten up. Part of Dexter wondered if he was having trouble controlling his temper, and then decided he didn’t care. His voice came out like a whip-crack. “It is _not_ your burden to bear, you miserable sack of bones. It’s _ours._ All of ours. The Dead Men’s. Because when you fail, when you screw up and make a mistake and almost destroy the world, _we’re_ the ones who will have to clean up. Why? Because we’re your family, and that’s what brothers do.”

He jabbed a finger hard into Skulduggery’s sternum. “You like to pretend the weight of the world’s on your shoulders, but you’re wrong. When people are invested in you, they tend to be affected by your choices. Which means that when you have a problem, it’s _all_ of our problem. You can’t go around being our friend and then claiming we don’t have a right to your issues. That’s not how it works. And when you mess up this badly, you don’t have a right to decide whether or not we can get involved, because _we’re already involved,_ you numbskull. You dead and buried numbskull.”

Dexter took a breath and abruptly needed distance, and turned to stride across the room before wheeling around. “Do you know why I’ve kept my peace for so long?” he demanded. “It’s not just because you’re my family, Skulduggery. It’s because of all the times in the last two centuries I’ve seen you try, _so hard_ , to be a better man. That’s the man I _want_ to forgive.”

He jabbed his finger again, more forcefully than before. “Who you are right now? This idiot who casts away everything he still has because he thinks he has a right to make everyone else’s choices for them? This idiot who is willing to make the _same mistake he already made_ because he can’t bear to ask for help? This is not a man I want to forgive. This is a fool who deserves everything that’s coming to him. And I’m not going to give it to you, Skulduggery, because that’s what you want, and you’ve lost the right to decide your punishment. _We_ get to decide your punishment. _We_ get to decide what happens to you. Not you. And I’m telling you that you don’t get to be a coward and run away back into the darkness, and leave us to clean up the mess.”

He stopped, and needed another breath, and the silence was heavy. Skulduggery didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. Dexter waited, but the silence dragged on, and finally Dexter spun on his heel and yanked open the door and turned back. Saracen got to his feet and pointed at Dexter.

“What he said,” he said, and moved to join Dexter at the door. For a long moment they both waited.

Then Dexter demanded, “Well? Are you coming or not?”

There was a pause. Then Skulduggery stirred and straightened, and tugged his hat just so. He nodded. “Lead the way.”

 

By the time they got back to the Repository Dexter had calmed down and stopped long enough to ask one of the Cleavers if Grouse had arrived yet. He had, which was good, but there wasn’t much other news, which might be bad. Either way, Dexter was watching Skulduggery carefully as they entered the Repository. He saw Skulduggery stiffen when Wreath came into view. In the same moment Wreath made that pathetic wailing sound that was not quite a scream, and the necromantic veins around his pulse-points bulged, and he writhed in his little circle of magic. Grouse and Annunziata held him down.

Dexter gripped Skulduggery’s arm, but Skulduggery had already stopped, and after a second Wreath slumped back to the floor, gasping.

“Don’t you dare,” Dexter said in a low voice, “do anything stupid, or anything Saracen or Hopeless or I haven’t vetted.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

Skulduggery’s head turned to look at him with empty eye-sockets. “He’s being _tortured._ ”

Dexter looked back without a blink. “We can bind the armour permanently. Give him control. He’s already agreed to it.”

“How?”

“Because we found an alternative,” said Dexter as he turned to move toward the circle, “which you would know, if you’d get over yourself long enough to trust us like you said you did.” His words came out bitter, because they were. Dexter had given Skulduggery all his faith in the last two centuries, and stood by him even during those revelations, and Skulduggery had thrown it in his face by trying to take the armour back. In his, and Saracen’s, and Hopeless.

Wreath whimpered, and then stopped, and after a moment Dexter heard two pairs of footsteps following him. One came abreast of him, and Dexter knew without looking who it was.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Skulduggery said quietly.

“Bullshit,” Dexter shot back, and then they reached the circle and stopped outside it. “How is he?” Dexter asked Grouse.

The professor grunted. “Dying.”

Wreath’s breath caught and tension coiled in his body, visible mostly in the tremble of his limbs and his tightening grip on Annunziata’s hand.

“Has he been doing that a lot?” Saracen asked.

“Every now and then,” Grouse said shortly. “It’s the armour, I imagine.” Dexter very pointedly did not look Skulduggery’s way, and Grouse looked up. “I can save him, if I can get him back to a place with proper medical equipment. I won’t be able to heal all his injuries entirely, but I can save him.”

“He can’t leave the circle yet,” said China without looking up from where she worked at a display tables, temporarily repurposed as a work-desk. Dexter saw the curve of a manacle under her stylus.

“Because if he does, Lord Vile’s armour will take over and slaughter everyone, yes,” Grouse snapped.

“How badly is he hurt?” Skulduggery asked.

“It’s mostly malnutrition,” said Grouse. “The armour kept him alive and ambulatory using magic, but didn’t bother with general maintenance. Take his hand, for instance.” With a gentleness belied by his demeanour, Grouse took Wreath’s right hand and lifted it. Wreath made a noise in his throat, but didn’t move or try to pull away. “It’s not infected, because his hand’s not much good to the armour if it falls off, but he sustained injuries over a month ago. Looks like his necromantic item exploded in his hand. There’s still shards of it in there, and having been left untended for a month, there’s only so much I can do to heal it. Probably it will remain the weaker hand for the rest of his life.”

“Your bedside manner overwhelms me,” Wreath whispered. Grouse glared down at him.

“Shut up or you’ll lose your voice too.”

Very carefully, keeping all his limbs out of the second circle, Skulduggery kneeled. “I have your cane pommel, by the way,” he said conversationally, as if Wreath wasn’t lying broken on the floor. “It was silly of you to have lost it on the turf. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you weren’t observant.”

“ _I_ know where my priorities lie,” Wreath grumbled. Grouse rolled his eyes.

“Who are you, and what did you do with Solomon Wreath?” There was a moment of awkward silence. Then Skulduggery nodded firmly. “Too soon.”

“So too soon you’re going backwards in time,” said Saracen.

“Then we’d better cut to the chase. Solomon, you don’t have to do this.”

Wreath took a moment to answer. Then he opened his eyes, his gaze staring past Skulduggery’s shoulder. Not that you could tell. Dexter wondered if Wreath knew that his eyes were solid black, without even the whites. “Yes,” he said hoarsely, “I do.”

Skulduggery looked down at him, and his head shook in uncharacteristic confusion. “Why?”

“Why do you care?” Wreath’s gaze didn’t waver. “I realise you have a tendency to overcompensate responsibility, but you don’t own me, and you’ve stated several times that I’m not your friend. I should think you’d be pleased I won’t be around to get in your way.”

“Not like this,” Skulduggery said quietly. “And we were friends, once.”

Wreath grunted. “You’re getting sentimental. I’m just surprised you remember.”

Dexter shook his head. “If Larrikin were here he’d be ordering the two of you to hug by now.”

“God forbid,” Wreath muttered.

“I would have appreciated the show,” said China lightly, coming to join them around the circle. A pair of manacles were in her hands. “Dexter. Saracen. Since you missed our previous conversation, I have modified these manacles to allow Wreath’s magic passage. We will need to write the circles around his bed, and the trip to the Hibernian will not be pleasant, but at least we will be able to move him to a more convenient location. Professor, if you don’t mind?”

“Give them here.” Grouse took the manacles and snapped one around Wreath’s bad hand, and then took the other from Annunziata to enclose the manacles around the other. At first the only evidence that anything changed was Wreath’s breath catching, but then the veins dulled and sank into his skin. They didn’t vanish, but at least now they looked more like tattoos than some kind of Remnant possession. That was a comparison Dexter didn’t need.

“We’re ready,” Grouse called to Donegan and Gracious, who had been standing around chatting and waiting for something to happen. They both came closer, something very like relief on their faces.

Guild looked up too, and said sharply, “Hold on.”

“Thurid,” said Bliss, “let them go. Whatever happens, Cleric Wreath requires medical attention.”

Guild scowled, but after a moment he nodded, as if it had all been his choice to begin with. Hopeless caught their eyes and gave them a very weary smile. Guild wasn’t going to win this one. From the whispers Dexter had heard outside, enough people had seen Hopeless facing down the armour to renew some old Dead Men tales in the Sanctuary consciousness. It wasn’t going to be fun, but in the wake of Morwenna’s death, it was probably for the best.

“Wait,” Wreath said. His hands moved as if to reach for someone and then halted when he realised the futility of such a move. He swallowed visibly. “Skulduggery, wait. Sanguine.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “What about Sanguine?”

“He’s working for the Diablerie,” said Wreath.

Dexter frowned. “You mean that phone call he made at Clearwater? You know who it was to?”

“I suspect it was to Jaron Gallow,” Wreath whispered. “I’ve been investigating them for the past couple of years. The Diablerie are active again. Jaron Gallow, Murder Rose and Gruesome Krav reunited last year. They take orders from someone named Batu, but I’ve been starting to suspect Gallow uses the name as a misdirection. Sanguine joined them a few months ago.”

Skulduggery leaned closer. “And the Baron’s role?”

“Scapegoat, perhaps,” Wreath said. “Sanguine was hired to break him out of prison. I don’t know what relevance the Baron or the Grotesquery has to the Diablerie’s plans, but I do know the Diablerie have been taking an interest in certain specific personages.”

“Who?” Dexter asked.

“Cameron Light,” Wreath answered. “Emmett Peregine. Alexander Remit. There were others. I didn’t have time to track them down.”

“I’ll find them,” said Skulduggery. “I don’t suppose you started taking notes over the years?”

Wreath’s eyes had shut. His breathing was raspier than it had been. “Talk to Adrian Baritone.”

“He’s a necromancer?”

Wreath’s voice was definitely weaker. “Yes. He travels more than most. He brings me information. He may be able to help you with other pending details.”

“I’ll ask him,” Skulduggery promised. “Is that everything? Your personal entourage awaits.”

“Because I always wished I had one of those,” Wreath murmured, and then fell silent, so the only sign he was even still alive was his breathing.

“Bring over the litter,” Grouse ordered Gracious and Donegan.

Gracious saluted. “Yes, sir, right away, sir.”

“Be quick about it!” Grouse barked, and the pair of them scurried off.

Skulduggery rose to his feet, and looked down at Annunziata as if seeing her for the first time, even though Dexter knew he had noticed her the moment he walked in. “And who are you?”

“Cleric Annunziata of the Italian Temple,” answered Annunziata.

“Ah, excellent,” said Skulduggery. “Another necromancer. Did you help Dexter find this rather brilliant binding spell? I knew he wasn’t intelligent enough to do it on his own.”

“You’re not too dead for me to knock your block off, dead man,” Dexter grumbled, and he saw a trace of a smile on Annunziata’s face.

“I did,” she acknowledged.

“May I presume you intend to stay with Solomon for the foreseeable future?”

“I do,” said Annunziata. “What he contains, and what he is about to do, are two of the most world-changing events in recent Temple history. It is only my duty.”

Skulduggery sighed. “Necromancers. Sorcerers’ answer to Christianity. Very well, then.” He adjusted his hat and turned.

“Where are you going?” Dexter and Saracen demanded at once.

“I’m going to solve Solomon’s case for him,” said Skulduggery without looking around, and strode out of the Repository.


	30. 29

Saracen stood silently beside his father, watching the mausoleum stone come down. Most sorcerers had their own clans with which to be interred. Morwenna Crow had belonged to the Temple, but she’d been Grand Mage, so she was buried with honours alongside Tome and Meritorious’s effigy. (Meritorious’s ashes, of course, had been interred in his clan’s mausoleum. Which would be Hopeless mausoleum. Which, Saracen knew, would someday be his. Funny how the world worked.)

There weren’t as many people at Morwenna’s funeral as had been at Meritorious’s, but there were a lot more than anyone expected. In spite of her magic, she had been well-liked. Skulduggery had shown up briefly. Dexter was across the room with the Monster Hunters. (Saracen didn’t know for certain whether the three of them had talked, but neither Gracious nor Donegan had made any sign they were going to take their information to a higher authority.) A number of attendees were international. And a number standing at the back actually were necromancers—tired, frightened, grim-looking things, many of whom didn’t look much older than Annunziata.

The mausoleum stone landed gently but with a dooming thud, directed there by two Elementals. It took a moment, but then the collective mourners stirred, and turned to leave or talk quietly to their companions. The necromancers slipped out one by one, the last to arrive and the first to depart.

Saracen touched Hopeless arm, intending to guide him out. It wasn’t like he was blind, he told himself, but Hopeless had been burdened. Not that he wasn’t to begin with, but this was worse than usual. His hair had kept steadily going grey. It was a shallow judgment of stress, but it was the biggest physical indicator that Hopeless was getting _old_. There had been a time when Saracen didn’t think it was possible for Hopeless to get old and weary. There had been a time when he had refused to admit the first grey hairs had even existed.

Now, whenever he looked at his father, the first thing he noticed was how much of Hopeless’s hair had gone grey.

“You should dye your hair red,” he told Hopeless as he took his father’s arm to lead him out of the crypt. Hopeless tilted his head and quirked his mouth, but the humour didn’t reach his eyes. The gentle, tired understanding did, though. And there was something else lurking behind it, a kind of hopelessness Saracen was denying was even there. Hopeless was never _hopeless_.

“Yes, I know,” Saracen answered him as if he’d said something, letting him set the pace. They were the centre of attention. No one dared to approach them, but they were being watched and whispered over. Everyone knew Hopeless had been Meritorious’s heir. Everyone knew Hopeless had been good friends with Morwenna. Everyone was waiting for him to crack, or to step up and fill the Grand Mage’s shoes. No one would have argued, because no one was going to argue against a man who had once fought Mevolent one-on-one, been captured, come out alive and sane, and then stood down Lord Vile apparently returned.

It was the last bit that had done it. The rest was long enough ago that people were either too young to know it, or willing to forget it had happened. It was harder to forget when the evidence of bravery was so close to home.

_And yes, you are, stupidly so. Don’t even try to deny it._

Hopeless mouth twitched again.

“I mean, it’s one thing to be redheaded,” Saracen continued as if he wasn’t just making accusations only Hopeless could hear. “It’s another to be redheaded and going grey. You need to maintain some youth and dignity here. You’re a _leader_ now. Isn’t that terrifying? Hello, Guild.”

He waved cheerily at the other Elder as they exited the crypt, and the older sorcerer frowned. He had been lying in wait to surprise them the moment they came out into the sunlight, which frankly was both disturbing and rude, and Saracen wasn’t going to give him the benefit of having succeeded. Not that Hopeless would have been surprised anyway.

Hopeless gave Guild a weary nod.

“Hopeless,” Guild answered shortly. “We have a lot to discuss. Most of it can be done later, in the Sanctuary, but there is one matter we need to address as soon as possible, and that is the matter of the Grand Mage.”

“Seriously?” Saracen exclaimed. “Morwenna has been dead for all of three days and you’re already trying to jump into her boots? How did—”

Hopeless squeezed his arm and Saracen fell silent.

“I realise a translator is necessary,” Guild said coldly, “but that’s all I need you for, Rue: translating. Keep your comments to yourself.” He looked back at Hopeless. “I’ve already asked Mr Bliss. He’s still unwilling to take on the position of Grand Mage himself. However, he is willing to become an Elder, if one of us becomes Grand Mage. I’m sure you understand that we need a strong leader as soon as is possible, Hopeless. That’s why I trust I will have your cooperation when I submit my nomination to take over Grand Mage Crow’s position.”

Hopeless regarded Guild. Saracen waited for him to sign, but instead Hopeless reached into his inside coat-pocket, getting out a pen and a small notebook he had taken to carrying. He wrote something very short and then tore it off and handed it to Guild. Guild took one look and then crumpled it in his fist, stepping closer.

“Don’t be a fool, Hopeless. Meritorious and Tome one year. Crow the very next. We’ve been attacked by Serpine and Vengeous in quick order, and the eyes of the world are on us regarding Vile’s armour. This isn’t a situation on which we can sit and hope things turn out for the best.”

Hopeless shook his head and wrote another note, and Saracen surreptitiously tried to read it over his shoulder without letting on to Guild that he was close enough to actually read it. Hopeless tilted it away before he could. When he tore it off and handed it to Guild, Guild went white. He crumpled the paper and licked his lips, his gaze flickering to Saracen.

“I suspected you knew about that. You’re blackmailing me, then?”

Hopeless sighed and shook his head again, and wrote. This time, he didn’t stop Saracen from reading it _. ‘No one else knows. But I’m not going to let a man capable of that become Grand Mage.’_

Guild read the note and fisted it, his face stony. “You do realise who gave that order, don’t you?”

Hopeless pen flicked. _‘I also know that right or wrong, he was burdened by that order for the rest of his life. Did you give it more than a second thought?’_

Guild stared down at the response. Then he crumpled it with the rest and burned the lot of them, and looked up. “That’s your final word?” Hopeless nodded. “I see. Good day, then, Elder Hopeless.”

With a stiff nod back Guild turned and strode off into the dissipating crowd.

 

Annunziata learned, very quickly, not to let the shouts or cajoles of the prisoners bother her. Paying them attention only encouraged them to make more noise. It was frustrating, but Annunziata was a very focussed woman. Even still, she could wish the cell weren’t at the very back of the Gaol.

It had to be, of course. If anything untoward occurred, the Sanctuary would need all the time it could to muster a response to the armour, but they needed immediate access to Wreath in the interim, so they couldn’t move him out of the Sanctuary’s bounds. That meant taking one of the larger cells in the deepest part of the Gaol, and editing the wards, and making Wreath as comfortable as possible.

Which was why Annunziata was currently reading aloud from the ‘ _Kalika Purana’_ , ignoring the comments from other prisoners. It was a difficult text to find outside of India, but she had asked China Sorrows whether she had a copy—preferably translated. Annunziata’s Hindi was better than it had been a week ago, but still wasn’t enough to read a whole text in the language. Fortunately, China Sorrows had provided. China Sorrows had everything.

“This section on human sacrifice is curious,” Annunziata murmured, skimming through the book. “Leaving aside the precise details, which could well be regarded as window-dressing, there is some similarity with necromantic tenets.” She spoke low enough that no one would hear her from the other cells, especially over the sound of their own tumult, but Solomon could. He didn’t answer, but he could, theoretically, hear her.

She shook her head. “It’s incredible. In retrospect, with comparison, the connections are so very obvious. Do you not agree, Cleric Wreath?”

There was no answer. It was frankly something of a relief to hear footsteps approaching, and Annunziata rose and bowed as Skulduggery Peasant stopped beside her, then lifted her face to look directly into his empty eye-sockets. He tilted his head in what seemed to be amusement. Or possibly it was confusion. She couldn’t quite tell.

“You do have somewhere to sleep, I presume,” he said.

“Elder Hopeless has given me a bunk just outside the Gaol,” she said. “I have not used it yet.” She hesitated. “Detective, if I may ask—Master Crow’s funeral …?”

“It was a nice funeral,” he assured her. “What I saw of it. I left early to avoid questions. How is he?”

Annunziata turned toward the cell. “See for yourself. There hasn’t been much change.”

The cells weren’t made for comfort. They were magically sustaining, so there were no bathroom facilities of any kind, and very rarely any entertainment even for prisoners who were there long-term. For Solomon, the Elders had spared blankets and pillows, one or two books, and several knickknacks Cleric Quiver had provided of which he said Solomon had been especially fond. Annunziata had thought it uncharacteristically kind, given that necromancers weren’t meant to have personal objects at all, until she realised that the necromancers, more than anyone else, had reason to want Solomon to maintain his own identity.

Maybe it would have been helpful, if Solomon responded to any outside stimulus.

“He just sits there,” she said, watching his motionless figure on the cot. His back was to the wall, his head resting back against it, his legs sprawled just enough to make her think he had, perhaps, moved or deliberately chosen the position for comfort. Then she remembered that a man like Cleric Wreath would never choose to be so undignified.

He wasn’t wearing a prisoner’s uniform. He wasn’t wearing a suit, either. The loose, comfortable sweats didn’t become him at all.

Skulduggery Pleasant approached the bars of the cell and stopped, and Annunziata wondered what he was thinking. “Solomon.”

Annunziata didn’t expect a response. To her surprise, Solomon stirred, very slightly, and his eyes creased, and his breath caught. Then he settled and it was like nothing had happened. Annunziata stared. Detective Pleasant nodded to himself, as if the response had confirmed a suspicion.

“May I use this?” Detective Pleasant asked, and pulled her chair closer to the bars.

“Of course,” Annunziata answered. “I may take the opportunity to sleep.”

She glanced once more into the cell. Solomon Wreath sat on his cot, his sightless gaze staring into distances she couldn’t conceive, his eyes black on black and the newly drawn tattoos stark on his pale skin. They covered him from head to toe, on his face and peeking out beneath the hems and collar of his clothes. Every now and then they would pulse, and he would shudder, and Annunziata could only wonder what sort of war was happening inside of him. So great a one that it took up all his attention, until he could barely even acknowledge a man who had once been his friend.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Detective Pleasant asked from the chair, sitting back into it as if he was just visiting for a cup of tea and a chat. “I thought, at first, that you were a magical child wreaking havoc on some poor innocent mortals. Then, of course, our dear old friend Babel proved otherwise. Do you remember Babel? He stole all your coin. It’s just as well he was too incompetent to keep it, as I’m sure you remember also …”

Annunziata turned and walked down the hall toward the exit, and soon Detective Pleasant’s smooth voice was drowned out by the chatter and pleading of the prisoners in the Gaol.


End file.
